I 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT    LOS  ANGELES 


li 


REPRESENTATIVE 
NARRATIVES 


BY 


CARROLL  LEWIS  MAXCY,  M.A. 

Morris  Professor  of  Rhetoric  in  Williams  College 
Author  of ''The  Rhetorical  Principles  of  Narration^* 


4  5  3  5 1; 

BOSTON     NEW  YORK     CHICAGO 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    I914,    BY   CARROLL   LEWIS   MAXCY 


ALL    RIGHTS   RESERVED 


•_•       ••     -•-    •• 


C   C  C         ti      c    ' 


•  •  • 

•  •  •• 

t  •  •    •        •    •  , 


«         «         C       c 


>  «     «        e 


CAMBRIDGE  .   MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


1113c 


3313 


/Vl4 


O 


I 


-ojb'i 


TO 
L.  11.  M. 


If  my  slight  Muse  do  please  these  curious  days. 
The  pain  be  mine,  but  thine  shall  be  the  praise." 


PREFACE 

The  compiler  of  this  volume  realizes  that  there  would 
seem  to  be  little  excuse  for  adding  to  the  number  of 
similar  collections  already  in  existence;  and  yet  he 
has  brought  the  following  pages  together  in  response  to 
the  demands  of  the  classroom.  Other  compilations  are 
based  largely  on  the  historical  development  of  the  short- 
story  or  upon  the  various  characteristics  of  the  short- 
story  as  a  distinct  literary  type.  The  purpose  of  this 
volume  is  to  present  types  of  narrative  structure, 
without  regard  to  the  problem  of  literary  evolution. 
The  matter  of  setting,  of  characterization,  of  plot, 
of  dialogue  has  been  the  fundamental  consideration 
guiding  the  choice  of  specimens. 

The  introductions  to  the  individual  selections  are 
intentionally  brief,  and  indicate  merely  the  principal 
qualities  for  which  they  have  been  found  useful  as  illus- 
trative types.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add  that  each 
narrative  may  serve  other  purposes  than  those  indicated 
in  the  preliminary  paragraphs. 

In  the  proper  place  acknowledgment  is  made  to  the 
various  publishing  houses  that  have  courteously  per- 
mitted the  use  of  copyrighted  material. 

Carroll  Lewis  Maxcy 

Williams  College 

williamstown,  massachusetts 

March,  1914 


CONTENTS 


Setting  '    ^ 

Landor's  Cottage     .    .    . 
>^^The  Wheat  Pit     .... 

/     N-<i-^APPINESS        ~.^ 

^C-^  Of  a  Mirror  and  a  Bell    . 
The  Fall  of  the  House  of 

Usher Edgar  Allan  Poe 


Edgar  Allan  Poe 
Frank  Norris      .     . 
Guy  de  Maupassant 
Lafcadio  Hearn  .     . 


3 

20 

33 
40 


Character 

Francisco  Pizarro     .    . 

HE  GpEAT  Stone  Face 

Miss  J^sther's  Guest     . 

r 
The    Proprietor    of 


V 


the 
Caf^  Saint-Antoine   .     . 

A  Liberal  Education    .    . 

The  Outcasts  of  Poker 
Flat /. 

A  Coward 


William  H.  Prescott  j  67 
'Nathaniel  Hawthorne/ .  78 
Sarah  Orne  Jewett   .    .  104 

Harry  James  Smith  .  117 
Anthony  Hope  Hawkins  129 


Plot 

y^         INIURAD   the   UnLUCKT 
'T^rvEsTlIER 

^^^^jflHE  Black  Poodle    . 
/     The  Three  Strangers 
Marjorie  Daw  .    .    . 
,  ^,„y^iE  Necklace  ... 
'^^'  The  Man  with  the  Blde 
Eyes       


Bret  Harte      .     .     .     . 

135 

Guy  de  Maupassant 

150 

Maria  Edgeworth     .     . 

163 

Old  Testament     .     .     . 

207 

Frank  Anstcy      .,    .     . 
Thomas  Hardy  ' .     .     . 

222 

2C0 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 

290 

Guy  de  Maupassant 

317 

y 

^ 


Jean  Richepin 


329 


viii  CONTENTS 

General 

l.A  Grande  Breteche  .  .  Ilonore  de  Balzac  .  .  339 
■7  The  Birthmark  ....  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  .  368 
^  On  the  Stairs Arthur  Morrison  .     .     .  391i^ 


A 

REPRESENTATIVE  NARRATIVES 

SETTING 


LANDOR'S   COTTAGE 

BY  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

It  is,  indeed,  only  by  straining  the  term  "narration"  that 
one  is  justified  in  including  Landors  Cottage  among  narrative 
specimens,  for  description  constitutes  the  great  body  of  the 
work.  Nor  can  the  descriptive  portions  be  termed  typical 
"setting,"  because  they  do  not  present  a  background  against 
which  action  is  projected  for  added  effectiveness.  Yet  one 
may,  perhaps,  argue  that  the '  pedestrian'  adventure,  chronicled 
in  the  opening  paragraphs,  presents  a  suflBcient  approximation 
to  the  "chronological  ordering  of  the  episodes  constituting  an 
event"  to  justify  the  contention  that  the  selection  has  in  it 
something  of  the  narrative  character. 

The  picture  of  Landor's  cottage  itself,  the  main  theme,  pre- 
sents a  noteworthy  example  of  what  is  known  as  "expository 
description"  —  a  phase  of  descriptive  composition  so  often 
found  in  setting.  Its  purpose  is,  in  the  main,  to  appeal  to  the 
understanding  rather  than  to  the  emotions,  to  produce  in  the 
reader's  miud  an  exact  representation  of  the  object  described 
rather  than  to  suggest  feelings  associated  therewith.  In 
Landor's  Cottage  Poe  presents  a  picture  of  the  utmost  definite- 
ness,  and  the  student  will  find  it  quite  possible  from  the  data 
presented  to  prepare  a  very  definite  map,  or  ground-plan,  of 
the  scene;  and,  if  he  has  the  skill,  to  sketch  the  cottage  itself  or 
some  view  selected  from  the  picture. 

"Point  of  view,"  which  is  necessary  in  any  artistic  under- 
taking of  this  character,  is  also  strikingly  illustrated  in  the 
selection;  and  the  student,  as  he  reads,  should  observe  care- 
fully how  this  changes  as  he  advances  from  one  part  of  the 
composition  to  another. 

During  a  pedestrian  trip  last  summer,  through  one 
or  two  of  the  river  counties  of  New  York,  I  found  my- 
self, as  the  day  declined,  somewhat  embarrassed  about 


4  SETTING 

the  road  I  was  pursuing.  The  land  undulated  very  re- 
markably; and  my  path,  for  the  last  hour,  had  wound 
about  and  about  so  confusedly,  in  its  effort  to  keep  in  the 
valleys,  that  I  no  longer  knew  in  what  direction  lay  the 

sweet  village  of  B ,  where  I  had  determined  to  stop 

for  the  night.  The  sun  had  scarcely  shone  —  strictly 
speaking  —  during  the  day,  which,  nevertheless,  had 
been  unpleasantly  warm.  A  smoky  mist,  resembling  that 
of  the  Indian  summer,  enveloped  all  things,  and,  of 
course,  added  to  my  uncertainty.  Not  that  I  cared 
much  about  the  matter.  If  I  did  not  hit  upon  the  village 
before  sunset,  or  even  before  dark,  it  was  more  than 
possible  that  a  little  Dutch  farmhouse,  or  something  of 
that  kind,  would  soon  make  its  appearance  —  although, 
in  fact,  the  neighborhood  (perhaps  on  account  of  being 
more  picturesque  than  fertile)  was  very  sparsely  inhab- 
ited. At  all  events,  with  my  knapsack  for  a  pillow,  and 
my  hound  as  a  sentry,  a  bivouac  in  the  open  air  was  just 
the  thing  which  would  have  amused  me.  I  sauntered 
on,  therefore,  quite  at  ease  —  Ponto  taking  charge  of 
my  gun  —  until  at  length,  just  as  I  had  begun  to  con- 
sider whether  the  numerous  little  glades,  that  led  hither 
and  thither,  were  intended  to  be  paths  at  all,  I  was  con- 
ducted by  one  of  them  into  an  unquestionable  carriage 
track.  There  could  be  no  mistaking  it.  The  traces  of 
light  wheels  were  evident;  and  although  the  tall  shrub- 
beries and  overgrown  undergrowth  met  overhead,there 
was  no  obstruction  whatever  below,  even  to  the  passage 
of  a  Virginia  mountain  wagon  —  the  most  aspiring 
vehicle,  I  take  it,  of  its  kind.  The  road,  however,  except 
in  being  open  through  the  wood  —  if  wood  be  not  too 
weighty  a  name  for  such  an  assemblage  of  light  trees  — 
and  except  in  the  particulars  of  evident  wheel-tracks  — 
bore  no  resemblance  to  any  road  I  had  before  seen.  The 


LANDOR'S  COTTAGE  5 

tracks  of  which  I  speak  were  but  faintly  perceptible  — 
having  been  impressed  u[)on  the  firm,  yet  pleasantly 
moist  surface  of  what  looked  more  like  green  Genoese 
velvet  than  anything  else.  It  was  grass,  clearly  —  but 
grass  such  as  we  seldom  see  out  of  England  —  so  short, 
so  thick,  so  even,  and  so  vivid  in  color.  Not  a  single 
impediment  lay  in  the  wheel-route  —  not  even  a  chip  or 
a  dead  twig.  The  stones  that  once  obstructed  the  way 
had  been  carefully  placed  —  not  thrown  —  along  the 
sides  of  the  lane,  so  as  to  define  its  boundaries  at  bottom 
with  a  kind  of  half-precise,  half-negligent,  and  wholly 
picturesque  definition.  Clumps  of  wild  flowers  grew 
everywhere,  luxuriantly,  in  the  interspaces. 

What  to  make  of  all  this,  of  course,  I  knew  not.  Here 
was  art  undoubted!}'  —  that  did  not  surprise  me  —  all 
roads,  in  the  ordinary  sense,  are  works  of  art;  nor  can  I 
say  that  there  was  much  to  wonder  at  in  the  mere  excess 
of  art  manifested;  all  that  seemed  to  have  been  done, 
might  have  been  done  here  —  with  such  natural  "capa- 
bilities" (as  they  have  it  in  the  books  on  Landscape 
Gardening)  —  with  very  little  labor  and  expense.  No; 
it  was  not  the  amount  but  the  character  of  the  art  which 
caused  me  to  take  a  seat  on  one  of  the  blossomy  stones 
and  gaze  up  and  down  this  fairv^-like  avenue  for  lialf 
an  hour  or  more  in  bewildered  admiration.  One  thing 
became  more  and  more  evident  the  longer  I  gazed:  an 
artist,  and  one  with  a  most  scrupulous  eye  for  form,  had 
superintended  all  these  arrangements.  The  greatest 
care  had  been  taken  to  preserve  a  due  medium  between 
the  neat  and  graceful,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  pitior- 
esque,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  Italian  term,  on  the  other. 
There  were  few  straight,  and  no  long,  uninterrupted 
lines.  The  same  effect  of  curvature  or  of  color  appeared 
twice,  usually,  but  not  oftencr,  at  any  one  point  of  view. 


6  SETTING 

Everywhere  was  variety  in  uniformity.  It  was  a  piece  of 
"composition,"  in  which  the  most  fastidiously  critical 
taste  could  scarcely  have  suggested  an  emendation. 

I  had  turned  to  the  right  as  I  entered  this  road,  and 
now,  arising,  I  continued  in  the  same  direction.  The 
path  was  so  serpentine,  that  at  no  moment  could  I  trace 
its  course  for  more  than  two  or  three  paces  in  advance. 
Its  character  did  not  undergo  any  material  change. 

Presently  the  murmur  of  water  fell  gently  upon  my 
ear  —  and  in  a  few  moments  afterward,  as  I  turned  with 
the  road  somewhat  more  abruptly  than  hitherto,  I  be- 
came aware  that  a  building  of  some  kind  lay  at  the  foot 
of  a  gentle  declivity  just  before  me.  I  could  see  nothing 
distinctly  on  account  of  the  mist  which  occupied  all  the 
little  valley  below.  A  gentle  breeze,  however,  now  arose, 
as  the  sun  was  about  descending;  and  while  I  remained 
standing  on  the  brow  of  the  slope,  the  fog  gradually 
becams  dissipated  into  wreaths,  and  so  floated  over  the 
scene. 

As  it  came  fully  into  view  —  thus  gradually  as  I  de- 
scribe it  —  piece  by  piece,  here  a  tree,  there  a  glimpse  of 
water,  and  here  again  the  summit  of  a  chimney,  I  could 
scarcely  help  fancying  that  the  whole  was  one  of  the 
ingenious  illusions  sometimes  exhibited  under  the  name 
of  "vanishing  pictures." 

By  the  time,  however,  that  the  fog  had  thoroughly 
disappeared,  the  sun  had  made  its  way  down  behind  the 
gentle  hills,  and  thence,  as  if  with  a  slight  chassez  to  the 
south,  had  come  again  fully  into  sight,  glaring  with  a 
purplish  luster  through  a  chasm  that  entered  the  valley 
from  the  west.  Suddenly,  therefore,  —  and  as  if  by  the 
hand  of  magic,  —  this  whole  valley  and  everything  in  it 
became  brilliantly  visible. 

The  first  cuuj)  (Twil,  as  the  sun  slid  into  the  position 


LANDOR'S  COTTAGE  7 

described,  impressed  me  very  much  as  I  have  been  im- 
pressed, when  a  boy,  by  the  concluding  scene  of  some 
well-arranged  theatrical  spectacle  or  melodrama.*  Not 
even  the  monstrosity  of  color  was  wanting :  for  the  sun- 
light came  out  through  the  chasm,  tinted  all  orange  and 
purple;  while  the  vivid  green  of  the  grass  in  the  valley 
was  reflected  more  or  less  upon  all  objects  from  the 
curtain  of  vapor  that  still  hung  overhead,  as  if  loath  to 
take  its  total  departure  from  a  scene  so  enchantingly 
beautiful. 

The  little  vale  into  which  I  thus  peered  down  from 
under  the  fog-canopy  could  not  have  been  more  than 
four  hundred  yards  long;  while  in  breadth  it  varied  from 
fifty  to  one  hundred  and  fifty,  or  perhaps  two  hundred. 
It  was  most  narrow  at  its  northern  extremity,  opening 
out  as  it  tended  southwardly,  but  with  no  very  precise 
regularity.  The  widest  portion  was  within  eighty  yards 
of  the  southern  extreme.  The  slopes  which  encompassed 
the  vale  could  not  fairly  be  called  hills,  unless  at  their 
northern  face.  Here  a  precipitous  ledge  of  granite  arose 
to  a  height  of  some  ninety  feet;  and,  as  I  have  men- 
tioned, the  valley  at  this  point  was  not  more  than  fifty 
feet  wide;  but  as  the  visitor  proceeded  southwardly  from 
this  cliff,  he  found,  on  his  right  hand  and  on  his  left, 
declivities  at  once  less  high,  less  precipitous,  and  less 
rocky.  All,  in  a  word,  sloped  and  softened  to  the  south; 
and  yet  the  whole  vale  was  engirdled  by  eminences, 
more  or  less  high,  except  at  two  points.  One  of  these  I 
have  already  spoken  of.  It  lay  considerably  to  the  north 
of  west,  and  was  where  the  setting  sun  made  its  way,  as 
I  have  before  described,  into  the  amphitheater,  through 
a  cleanly  cut  natural  cleft  in  the  granite  embankment; 
this  fissure  might  have  been  ten  yards  wide  at  its  widest 
point,  so  far  as  the  eye  could  trace  it.   It  seemed  to  lead 


8  SETTING 

up,  up,  like  a  natural  causeway,  into  the  recesses  of 
unexplored  mountains  and  forests.  The  other  opening 
was  directly  at  the  southern  end  of  the  vale.  Here,  gen- 
erally, the  slopes  were  nothing  more  than  gentle  inclina- 
tions, extending  from  east  to  west  about  one  hundred 
and  fifty  yards.  In  the  middle  of  this  extent  was  a  de- 
pression, level  with  the  ordinary  floor  of  the  valley.  As 
regards  vegetation,  as  well  as  in  respect  to  everything 
else,  the  scene  softened  and  sloped  to  the  south.  To  the 
north  —  on  the  craggy  precipice  —  a  few  paces  from  the 
verge  —  upsprang  the  magnificent  trunks  of  numerous 
hickories,  black  walnuts,  and  chestnuts,  interspersed 
with  occasional  oak;  and  the  strong  lateral  branches 
thrown  out  by  the  walnuts,  especially,  spread  far  over 
the  edge  of  the  cliff.  Proceeding  southwardly,  the  ex- 
plorer saw  at  first  the  same  class  of  trees,  but  less  and 
less  lofty  and  Salvatorish  in  character;  then  he  saw  the 
gentler  elm,  succeeded  by  the  sassafras  and  locust  — 
these  again  by  the  softer  linden,  red-bud,  catalpa,  and 
maple  —  these  yet  again  by  still  more  graceful  and  more 
modest  varieties.  The  whole  face  of  the  southern  de- 
clivity was  covered  with  wild  shrubbery  alone  —  an 
occasional  silver  willow  or  white  poplar  excepted.  In  the 
bottom  of  the  valley  itself  —  for  it  must  be  borne  in  mind 
that  the  vegetation  hitherto  mentioned  grew  only  on  the 
cliffs  or  hillsides  — were  to  be  seen  three  insulated  trees. 
One  was  an  elm  of  fine  size  and  exquisite  form :  it  stood 
guard  over  the  southern  gate  of  the  vale.  Another  was  a 
hickory,  much  larger  than  the  elm,  and  altogether  a 
much  finer  tree,  although  both  were  exceedingly  beau- 
tiful :  it  seemed  to  have  taken  charge  of  the  northwestern 
entrance,  springing  from  a  group  of  rocks  in  the  very 
jaws  of  the  ravine,  and  throwing  its  graceful  body,  at  an 
angle  of  nearly  forty -five  degrees,  far  out  into  the  sun- 


LANDOR'S  COTTAGE  0 

shine  of  the  amphitheater.  About  thirtj'  yards  east  of 
this  tree  stood,  however,  the  pride  of  the  valley,  and 
beyond  all  question  the  most  magnificent  tree  I  have 
ever  seen,  unless,  perhaps,  among  the  cypresses  of  the 
Itchiatuckanee.  It  was  a  triple-stemmed  tulip  tree  — 
the  Liriodendron  tulipiferum  —  one  of  the  natural  order 
of  magnolias.  Its  three  trunks  separated  from  the 
parent  at  about  three  feet  from  the  soil  and,  diverging 
very  slightly  and  gradually,  were  not  more  than  four 
feet  apart  at  the  point  where  the  largest  stem  shot  out 
into  the  foliage:  this  was  at  an  elevation  of  about  eighty 
feet.  The  whole  height  of  the  principal  division  was  one 
hundred  and  twenty  feet.  Nothing  can  surpass  in  beauty 
the  form  or  the  glossy,  vivid  green  of  the  leaves  of  the 
tulip  tree.  In  the  present  instance  they  were  fully  eight 
inches  wide;  but  their  glory  was  altogether  eclipsed  by 
the  gorgeous  splendor  of  the  profuse  blossoms.  Con- 
ceive, closely  congregated,  a  million  of  the  largest  and 
most  resplendent  tulips!  Only  thus  can  the  reader  get 
any  idea  of  the  picture  I  would  convey.  And  then  the 
stately  grace  of  the  clean,  delicately  granulated  colum- 
nar stems,  the  largest  four  feet  in  diameter,  at  twenty 
from  the  ground.  The  innumerable  blossoms,  mingling 
with  those  of  other  trees  scarcely  less  beautiful, 
although  infinitely  less  majestic,  filled  the  valley  with 
more  than  Arabian  perfumes. 

The  general  floor  of  the  amphitheater  was  grass  of  the 
same  character  as  that  I  had  found  in  the  road :  if  any- 
thing, more  deliciously  soft,  thick,  velvety,  and  miracu- 
lously green.  It  was  hard  to  conceive  how  all  this  beauty 
had  been  attained. 

1 1  have  spoken  of  two  openings  into  the  vale.  From 
the  one  to  the  northwest  issued  a  rivulet,  which  came, 
gently  murmuring  and  slightly  foaming,  down  the  ra- 


10  SETTING 

vine,  until  it  dashed  against  the  group  of  rocks  out  of 
which  sprang  the  insulated  hickory.  Here,  after  encir- 
cling the  tree,  it  passed  on,  a  little  to  the  north  of  east, 
leaving  the  tulip  tree  some  twenty  feet  to  the  south,  and 
making  no  decided  alteration  in  its  course  until  it  came 
near  the  midway  between  the  eastern  and  western  boun- 
daries of  the  valley.  At  this  point,  after  a  series  of 
sweeps,  it  turned  off  at  right  angles  and  pursued  a  gen- 
erally southern  direction  —  meandering  as  it  went  — 
until  it  became  lost  in  a  small  lake  of  irregular  figure 
(although  roughly  oval),  that  lay  gleaming  near  the 
lower  extremity  of  the  vale.  This  lakelet  was,  perhaps, 
a  hundred  yards  in  diameter  at  its  widest  part.  No  crys- 
tal could  be  clearer  than  its  waters.  Its  bottom,  which 
could  be  distinctly  seen,  consisted  altogether  of  pebbles 
brilliantly  white.  Its  banks,  of  the  emerald  grass  al- 
ready described,  rounded,  rather  than  sloped,  off  into 
the  clear  heaven  below ;  and  so  clear  was  this  heaven,  so 
perfectly,  at  times,  did  it  reflect  all  objects  above  it,  that 
where  the  true  bank  ended  and  where  the  mimic  one 
commenced,  it  was  a  point  of  no  little  difficulty  to  deter- 
mine. The  trout,  and  some  other  varieties  of  fish,  with 
which  this  pond  seemed  to  be  almost  inconveniently 
crowded,  had  all  the  appearance  of  veritable  flying-fish. 
It  was  almost  impossible  to  believe  that  they  were  not 
absolutely  suspended  in  the  air.  A  light  birch  canoe, 
that  lay  placidly  on  the  water,  was  reflected  in  its 
minutest  fibers  with  a  fidelity  unsurpassed  by  the  most 
exquisitely  polished  mirror.  A  small  island,  fairlj^  laugh- 
ing with  flowers  in  full  bloom,  and  affording  little  more 
space  than  just  enough  for  a  picturesque  little  building, 
seemingly  a  fowl-house,  arose  from  the  lake  not  far  from 
its  northern  shore,  to  which  it  was  connected  by  means 
of  an  inconceivably  light-looking  and  yet  very  primitive 


LANDOR'S  COTTAGE  11 

bridge.  It  was  formed  of  a  single  broad  and  thick  plank 
of  the  tulip  wood.  This  was  forty  feet  long,  and  spanned 
the  interval  between  shore  and  shore  with  a  slight  but 
very  perceptible  arch,  preventing  all  oscillation.  From 
the  southern  extreme  of  the  lake  issued  a  continuation 
of  the  rivulet,  which,  after  meandering  for  perhaps  thirty 
yards,  finally  passed  through  the  "depression"  (already 
described)  in  the  middle  of  the  southern  declivity,  and, 
tumbling  down  a  sheer  precipice  of  a  hundred  feet,  made 
its  devious  and  unnoticed  way  to  the  Hudson. 

The  lake  was  deep  —  at  some  points  thirty  feet  —  but 
the  rivulet  seldom  exceeded  three,  while  its  greatest 
width  was  about  eight.  Its  bottom  and  banks  were  as 
those  of  the  pond  —  if  a  defect  could  have  been  attrib- 
uted in  point  of  picturesqueness,  it  was  that  of  excessive 
neatness. 

The  expanse  of  the  green  turf  was  relieved,  here  and 
there,  by  an  occasional  showj'  shrub,  such  as  the  hydran- 
gea, or  the  common  snowball,  or  the  aromatic  syringa; 
or,  more  frequently,  by  a  clump  of  geraniums  blossom- 
ing gorgeously  in  great  varieties.  These  latter  grew  in 
pots  which  were  carefully  buried  in  the  soil,  so  as  to  give 
the  plants  the  appearance  of  being  indigenous.  Besides 
all  this,  the  lawn's  velvet  was  exquisitely  spotted  with 
sheep  —  a  considerable  flock  of  which  roamed  about  the 
vale,  in  company  with  three  tamed  deer,  and  a  vast  num- 
ber of  brilliantly  plumed  ducks.  A  very  large  mastiff 
seemed  to  be  in  vigilant  attendance  upon  these  animals, 
each  and  all. 

Along  the  eastern  and  western  cliffs  —  where,  towards 
the  upper  portion  of  the  amphitheater,  the  boundaries 
were  more  or  less  precipitous  —  grew  ivy  in  great  profu- 
sion —  so  that  only  here  and  there  could  even  a  glimpse 
of  the  naked  rock  be  obtained.  The  northern  precipice, 


12  SETTING 

in  like  manner,  was  almost  entirely  clothed  by  grape* 
vines  of  rare  luxuriance;  some  springing  from  the  soil  at 
the  base  of  the  cliff,  and  others  from  ledges  on  its  face. 

The  slight  elevation  which  formed  the  lower  boundary 
of  this  little  domain  was  crowned  by  a  neat  stone  wall, 
of  sufficient  height  to  prevent  the  escape  of  the  deer. 
Nothing  of  the  fence  kind  was  observable  elsewhere;  for 
nowhere  else  was  an  artificial  inclosure  needed :  —  any 
stray  sheep,  for  example,  which  should  attempt  to  make 
its  way  out  of  the  vale  by  means  of  the  ravine,  would 
find  its  progress  arrested,  after  a  few  yards'  advance,  by 
the  precipitous  ledge  of  rock  over  which  tumbled  the 
cascade  that  had  arrested  my  attention  as  I  first  drew 
near  the  domain.  In  short,  the  only  ingress  or  egress 
was  through  a  gate  occupying  a  rocky  pass  in  the  road, 
a  few  paces  below  the  point  at  which  I  stopped  to  recon- 
noiter  the  scene. 

I  have  described  the  brook  as  meandering  very  irregu- 
larly through  the  whole  of  its  course.  Its  two  general 
directions,  as  I  have  said,  were  first  from  west  to  east, 
and  then  from  north  to  south.  At  the  turn,  the  stream, 
sweeping  backwards,  made  an  almost  circular  loop,  so  as 
to  form  a  peninsula,  which  was  very  nearly  an  island, 
and  which  included  about  the  sixteenth  of  an  acre.  On 
this  peninsula  stood  a  dwelling-house  —  and  when  I  say 
that  this  house,  like  the  infernal  terrace  seen  by  Vathek,'' 
"  etait  (Vune  architecture  inconnue  dans  les  annales  de  la 
ierre,"  I  mean,  merely,  that  its  tout  ensemble  struck  rae 
with  the  keenest  sense  of  combined  novelty  and  pro- 
priety— in  a  word,  of  poetry —  (for,  than  in  the  words  just 
employed,  I  could  scarcely  give,  of  poetry  in  the  abstract, 
a  more  rigorous  definition)  —  and  I  do  not  mean  that  the 
merely  outre  was  perceptible  in  any  respect. 

In  fact,  nothing  could  well   be  more   simple,  more 


LANDOR'S  COTTAGE  13 

utterly  unpretending,  than  this  cottage.  Its  marvelous 
effect  lay  altogether  in  its  artistic  arrangement  as  a 
'picture.  I  could  have  fancied,  while  I  looked  at  it,  that 
some  eminent  landscape  painter  had  built  it  with  his 
brush. 

The  point  of  view  from  which  I  first  saw  the  valley 
was  not  altogether,  although  it  was  nearly,  the  best  point 
from  which  to  survey  the  house.  I  will  therefore  de- 
scribe it  as  I  afterwards  saw  it  —  from  a  position  on  the 
stone  wall  at  the  southern  extreme  of  the  amphitheater. 

The  main  building  was  about  twenty-four  feet  long 
and  sixteen  broad  —  certainly  not  more.  Its  total 
height,  from  the  ground  to  the  apex  of  the  roof,  could 
not  have  exceeded  eighteen  feet.  To  the  west  end  of  this 
structure  was  attached  one  about  a  third  smaller  in  all 
its  proportions:  —  the  line  of  its  front  standing  back 
about  two  yards  from  that  of  the  larger  house;  and  the 
line  of  its  roof,  of  course,  being  considerably  depressed 
below  that  of  the  roof  adjoining.  At  right  angles  to  these 
buildings,  and  from  the  rear  of  the  main  one  —  not  ex- 
actly in  the  middle — extended  a  third  compartment,  very 
small  —  being,  in  general,  one  third  less  than  the  west- 
ern wing.  The  roofs  of  the  two  larger  were  very  steep  — 
sweeping  down  from  the  ridge-beam  with  a  long  concave 
curve,  and  extending  at  least  four  feet  beyond  the  walls 
in  front,  so  as  to  form  the  roofs  of  two  j)iazzas.  These 
latter  roofs,  of  course,  needed  no  support;  but  as  they 
had  the  air  of  needing  it,  slight  and  perfectly  plain  pil- 
lars were  inserted  at  the  corners  alone.  The  roof  of  the 
northern  wing  was  merely  an  extension  of  a  portion  of 
the  main  roof.  Between  the  chief  building  and  western 
wing  arose  a  very  tall  and  rather  slender  square  chimney 
of  hard  Dutch  bricks,  alternately  black  and  red:  —  a 
slight  cornice  of  projecting  bricks  at  the  top.  Over  the 


14  SETTING 

gables  the  roofs  also  projected  very  much :  —  in  the  main 
building,  about  four  feet  to  the  east  and  two  to  the  west. 
The  principal  door  was  not  exactly  in  the  main  division, 
being  a  little  to  the  east  —  while  the  two  windows  were 
to  the  west.  These  latter  did  not  extend  to  the  floor,  but 
were  much  longer  and  narrower  than  usual  —  they  had 
single  shutters  like  doors  —  the  panes  were  of  lozenge 
form,  but  quite  large.  The  door  itself  had  its  upper  half 
of  glass,  also  in  lozenge  panes  —  a  movable  shutter 
secured  it  at  night.  The  door  to  the  west  wing  was  in  its 
gable,  and  quite  simple  —  a  single  window  looked  out 
to  the  south.  There  was  no  external  door  to  the  north 
wing,  and  it,  also,  had  only  one  window  to  the  east. 

The  blank  wall  of  the  eastern  gable  was  relieved  by 
stairs  (with  a  balustrade)  running  diagonally  across  it  — 
the  ascent  being  from  the  south.  Under  cover  of  the 
widely  projecting  eave  these  steps  gave  access  to  a  door 
leading  into  the  garret,  or  rather  loft  —  for  it  was  lighted 
only  by  a  single  window  to  the  north,  and  seemed  to 
have  been  intended  as  a  storeroom. 

The  piazzas  of  the  main  building  and  western  wing 
had  no  floors,  as  is  usual;  but  at  the  doors  and  at  each 
window,  large,  flat,  irregular  slabs  of  granite  lay  em- 
bedded in  the  delicious  turf,  affording  comfortable  foot- 
ing in  all  weather.  Excellent  paths  of  the  same  material 
—  not  nicely  adapted,  but  with  the  velvety  sod  filling 
frequent  intervals  between  the  stones,  led  hither  and 
thither  from  the  house,  to  a  crystal  spring  about  five 
paces  ofi",  to  the  road,  or  to  one  or  two  out-houses  that 
lay  to  the  north,  bej^ond  the  brook,  and  were  thoroughly 
concealed  by  a  few  locusts  and  catalpas. 

Not  more  than  six  steps  from  the  main  door  of  the  cot- 
tage stood  the  dead  trunk  of  a  fantastic  pear  tree,  so 
clothed  from  head  to  foot  in  the  gorgeous  bignonia  bios- 


LANDOR'S  COTTAGE  15 

soms  that  one  required  no  little  scnitiny  to  determine 
what  manner  of  sweet  thing  it  could  be.  From  various 
arms  of  this  tree  hung  cages  of  different  kinds.  In  one,  a 
large  wicker  cylinder  with  a  ring  at  top,  reveled  a  mock- 
ing-bird; in  another,  an  oriole;  in  a  third,  the  impudent 
bobolink,  —  while  three  or  four  more  delicate  prisons 
were  loudly  vocal  with  canaries. 

The  pillars  of  the  piazza  were  enwreathed  in  jasmine 
and  sweet  honeysuckle;  while  from  the  angle  formed  by 
the  main  structure  and  its  west  wing,  in  front,  sprang  a 
grape-vine  of  unexampled  luxuriance.  Scorning  all  re- 
straint, it  had  clambered  first  to  the  lower  roof  —  then 
to  the  higher;  and  along  the  ridge  of  this  latter  it  con- 
tinued to  writhe  on,  throwing  out  tendrils  to  the  right 
and  left,  until  at  length  it  fairly  attained  the  east  gable, 
and  fell  trailing  over  the  stairs. 

The  whole  house,  with  its  wings,  was  constructed  of 
the  old-fashioned  Dutch  shingles  —  broad,  and  with 
unrounded  corners.  It  is  a  peculiarity  of  this  material  to 
give  houses  built  of  it  the  appearance  of  being  wider  at 
bottom  than  at  top  —  after  the  manner  of  Egyptian  ar- 
chitecture; and  in  the  present  instance  this  exceedingly 
picturesque  effect  was  aided  by  numerous  pots  of  gor- 
geous flowers  that  almost  encompassed  the  base  of  the 
buildings. 

The  shingles  were  painted  a  dull  gray ;  and  the  happi- 
ness with  which  this  neutral  tint  melted  into  the  vivid 
green  of  the  tulip  tree  leaves  that  partially  overshadowed 
the  cottage  can  readily  be  conceived  by  an  artist. 

From  the  position  near  the  stone  wall,  as  described, 
the  buildings  were  seen  at  great  advantage  —  for  the 
southeastern  angle  was  thrown  forward  —  so  that  the 
eye  took  in  at  once  the  whole  of  the  two  fronts,  with 
the  picturesque  eastern  gable,  and  at  the  same  time 


16  SETTING 

obtained  just  a  sufficient  glimpse  of  the  northern  wing, 
with  parts  of  a  pretty  roof  to  the  spring-house,  and 
nearly  half  of  a  light  bridge  that  spanned  the  brook  in 
the  near  vicinity  of  the  main  buildings. 

I  did  not  remain  very  long  on  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
although  long  enough  to  make  a  thorough  survey  of  the 
scene  at  my  feet.  It  was  clear  that  I  had  wandered  from 
the  road  to  the  village,  and  I  had  thus  good  travelers' 
excuse  to  open  the  gate  before  me,  and  inquire  my  way, 
at  all  events;  so,  without  more  ado,  I  proceeded. 

The  road,  after  passing  the  gate,  seemed  to  lie  upon  a 
natural  ledge,  sloping  gradually  down  along  the  face  of 
the  northeastern  cliffs.  It  led  me  on  to  the  foot  of  the 
northern  precipice,  and  thence  over  the  bridge,  round 
by  the  eastern  gable  to  the  front  door.  In  this  progress, 
I  took  notice  that  no  sight  of  the  out-houses  could  be 
obtained. 

As  I  turned  the  corner  of  the  gable,  the  mastiff 
bounded  toward  me  in  stern  silence,  but  with  the  eye 
and  the  whole  air  of  a  tiger.  I  held  him  out  my  hand, 
however,  in  token  of  amity  —  and  I  never  yet  knew  the 
dog  who  was  proof  against  such  an  appeal  to  his  cour- 
tesy. He  not  only  shut  his  mouth  and  wagged  his  tail, 
but  absolutely  offered  me  his  paw  —  afterward  extend- 
ing his  civilities  to  Ponto. 

As  no  bell  was  discernible,  I  rapped  with  my  stick 
against  the  door,  which  stood  half  open.  Instantly  a 
figure  advanced  to  the  threshold  —  that  of  a  young 
woman  about  twenty -eight  years  of  age  —  slender,  or 
rather  slight,  and  somewhat  above  the  medium  height. 
As  she  approached,  with  a  certain  modest  decision  of 
step  altogether  indescribable,  I  said  to  myself,  "Surely 
here  I  have  found  the  perfection  of  natural,  in  contra- 
distinction from  artificial  ^race."  The  second  impression 


LANDOR'S  COTTAGE  17 

which  she  mude  on  me,  hut  hy  far  the  more  vivid  of  the 
two,  was  that  of  enthusiasm.  So  intense  an  exj)ression  of 
romance,  perhaps  I  should  call  it,  or  of  unworldliness, 
as  that  which  gleamed  from  her  deep-set  eyes,  had  never 
so  sunk  into  my  heart  of  hearts  before.  I  know  not  how 
it  is,  but  this  peculiar  expression  of  the  eye,  wreathing 
itself  occasionally  into  the  lips,  is  the  most  powerful,  if 
not  absolutely  the  sole,  spell,  which  rivets  my  interest 
in  woman.  "'Romance,'''' — -provided  my  readers  fully 
comprehend  what  I  would  here  imply  by  the  word  — 
"romance"  and  "womanliness"  seem  to  me  convertible 
terms;  and,  after  all,  what  man  truly  loves  in  woman, 
is  simply,  her  womanhood.  The  eyes  of  Annie  (I  heard 
some  one  from  the  interior  call  her  "Annie,  darling!") 
were  "spiritual  gray";  her  hair,  a  light  chestnut:  this  is 
all  I  had  time  to  observe  of  her. 

At  her  most  courteous  of  invitations,  I  entered  — • 
passing  first  into  a  tolerably  wide  vestibule.  Having 
come  mainly  to  observe,  I  took  notice  that  to  my  right, 
as  I  stepped  in,  was  a  window,  such  as  those  in  front  of 
the  house;  to  the  left,  a  door  leading  into  the  principal 
room;  while,  opposite  me,  an  open  door  enabled  me  to 
see  a  small  apartment,  just  the  size  of  the  vestibule, 
arranged  as  a  study,  and  having  a  large  bow  window 
looking  out  to  the  north. 

Passing  into  the  parlor,  I  found  myself  with  Mr. 
Landor  —  for  this,  I  afterwards  found,  was  his  name. 
He  was  civil,  even  cordial  in  his  manner;  but  just  then, 
I  was  more  intent  on  observing  the  arrangements  of  the 
dwelling  which  had  so  much  interested  me,  than  the 
personal  appearance  of  the  tenant. 

The  north  wing,  I  now  saw,  was  a  bed-chamber;  its 
door  opened  into  the  parlor.  West  of  this  door  was  a 
single  window,  looking  toward  the  brook.   At  the  west 


18  SETTING 

end  of  the  parlor,  were  a  fireplace,  and  a  door  leading 
into  the  west  wing  —  probably  a  kitchen. 

Nothing  could  be  more  rigorously  simple  than  the 
furniture  of  the  parlor.  On  the  floor  was  an  ingrain  car- 
pet, of  excellent  texture  —  a  white  ground,  spotted  with 
small  circular  green  figures.  At  the  windows  were  cur- 
tains of  snowy  white  jaconet  muslin :  they  were  tolerably 
full,  and  hung  decisively,  perhaps  rather  formally^  in 
sharp,  parallel  plaits  to  the  floor  —  just  to  the  floor. 
The  walls  were  papered  with  a  French  paper  of  great 
delicacy,  a  silver  ground,  with  a  faint  green  cord  running 
zig-zag  throughout.  Its  expanse  was  relieved  merely  by 
three  of  Julien's  exquisite  lithographs  a  irois  crayons, 
fastened  to  the  wall  without  frames.  One  of  these  draw- 
ings was  a  scene  of  Oriental  luxury,  or  rather  voluptu- 
ousness; another  was  a  "carnival  piece,"  spirited  beyond 
compare;  the  third  was  a  Greek  female  head  —  a  face  so 
divinely  beautiful,  and  yet  of  an  expression  so  provok- 
ingly  indeterminate,  never  before  arrested  my  attention. 

The  more  substantial  furniture  consisted  of  a  round 
table,  a  few  chairs  (including  a  large  rocking-chair),  and 
a  sofa,  or  rather  "settee":  its  material  was  plain  maple 
painted  a  creamy  white,  slightly  interstriped  with  green 
■ — the  seat  of  cane.  The  chairs  and  table  were  "to 
match";  but  the  forms  of  all  had  evidently  been  de- 
signed by  the  same  brain  which  planned  "the  grounds": 
it  is  impossible  to  conceive  anything  more  graceful. 

On  the  table  were  a  few  books;  a  large,  square,  crystal 
bottle  of  some  novel  perfume;  a  plain,  ground-glass  astral 
(not  solar)  lamp,  with  an  Italian  shade;  and  a  large  vase 
of  resplendently  blooming  flowers.  Flowers,  indeed,  of 
gorgeous  colors  and  delicate  odor  formed  the  sole  mere 
decoration  of  the  apartment.  The  fireplace  was  nearly 
filled  with  a  vase  of  brilliant  geranium.  On  a  triangular 


LANDOR'S  COTTAGE  19 

shelf  in  each  angle  of  the  room  stood  also  a  similar  vase, 
varied  only  as  to  its  lovely  contents.  One  or  two  smaller 
bouquets  adorned  the  mantel;  and  late  violets  clustered 
S,bout  the  open  windows. 

It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  work  to  do  more  than 
give,  in  detail,  a  picture  of  Mr.  Landor's  residence  — 
as  I  found  it. 


THE   WHEAT    PIT^ 


BY  FRANK  NORMS 


This  specimen  of  description,  occurring  at  the  close  of  chap- 
ter III  in  The  Pit,  a  reaHstic  novel  of  modern  life,  is  a  good  ex- 
ample of  expository  setting,  the  purpose  of  which  is  to  portray 
with  exactness  a  scene  playing  a  part  in  the  general  action  of 
the  narrative.  It  is  noteworthy  for  its  abundance  of  detail, 
which  leaves  little  to  the  imagination,  and  it  approximates  a 
word-photograph  of  the  scene  presented.  The  reader  feels  not 
so  much  the  process  of  selection  as  the  attempt  to  include 
every  possible  circumstance  —  a  characteristic  of  Norris's 
striking  realism. 

The  real  business  of  the  morning  was  over.  The  Pit 
knew  it.  .  .  .  The  traders  stood  around  in  expectant 
attitudes,  looking  into  one  another's  faces,  waiting  for 
what  they  could  not  exactly  say;  loath  to  leave  the  Pit 
lest  something  should  "turn  up"  the  moment  their 
backs  were  turned. 

By  degrees  the  clamor  died  away,  ceased,  began  again 
irregularly,  then  abruptly  stilled.  Here  and  there  a  bid 
was  called,  an  offer  made,  like  the  intermittent  crack  of 
small  arms  after  the  stopping  of  the  cannonade. 

"Sell  five  May  at  one  eighth." 

"Sell  twenty  at  one  quarter."  . 

"Give  one  eighth  for  May." 

For  an  instant  the  shoutings  were  renewed.  Then  sud- 
denly the  gong  struck.  The  traders  began  slowly  to  leave 
the  Pit.  One  of  the  floor  officers,  an  old  fellow  in  uniform 
and  vizored  cap,  appeared,  gently  shouldering  toward 

*  From  chapter  in  of  The  Pit.  By  permission  of  the  publishers, 
Messrs.  Doubleduy,  Page  &  Co. 


TIIE  WHEAT  PIT  21 

the  door  the  groups  wherein  the  bidding  and  ofTering 
were  still  languidly  going  on.  His  voice  full  of  remon- 
stration,  he  repeated  continually: 

"Time's  up,  gentlemen.  Go  on  now  and  get  your 
lunch.  Lunch  time  now.  Go  on  now,  or  I'll  have  to 
report  you.  Time's  up." 

The  tide  set  toward  the  doorways.  In  the  gallery  the 
few  visitors  rose,  putting  on  coats  and  wraps.  Over  by 
the  check  counter,  to  the  right  of  the  south  entrance  to 
the  floor,  a  throng  of  brokers  and  traders  jostled  each 
other,  reaching  over  one  another's  shoulders  for  hats  and 
ulsters.  In  steadily  increasing  numbers  they  poured  out 
of  the  north  and  south  entrances,  on  their  way  to  turn  in 
their  trading  cards  to  the  offices. 

Little  by  little  the  floor  emptied.  The  provision  and 
grain  pits  were  deserted,  and  as  the  clamor  of  the  place 
lapsed  away  the  telegraph  instruments  began  to  make 
themselves  heard  once  more,  together  with  the  chanting 
of  the  messenger  boys. 

Swept  clean  in  the  morning,  the  floor  itself,  seen  now 
through  the  thinning  groups,  was  littered  from  end  to 
end  with  scattered  grain  —  oats,  wheat,  corn,  and  bar- 
ley, with  wisps  of  hay,  peanut  shells,  apple  parings,  and 
orange  peel,  with  torn  newspapers,  odds  and  ends  of 
memoranda,  crushed  paper  darts,  and  above  all  with  a 
countless  multitude  of  yellow  telegraph  forms,  thousands 
upon  thousands,  crumpled  and  muddy  under  the  tramp- 
ling of  innumerable  feet.  It  was  the  debris  of  the  battle- 
field, the  abandoned  impedimenta  and. broken  weapons 
of  contending  armies,  the  detritus  of  conflict,  torn, 
broken,  and  rent,  that  at  the  end  of  each  day's  combat 
encumbered  the  field. 

At  last  even  the  click  of  the  last  of  the  telegraph  keys 
died  down.  Shouldering  themselves  into  their  overcoats, 


22  SETTING 

the  operators  departed,  calling  back  and  forth  to  one 
another,  making  "dates,"  and  cracking  jokes.  Washer- 
women appeared  with  steaming  pails,  porters  pushing 
great  brooms  before  them  began  gathering  the  refuse  of 
the  floor  into  heaps. 

Between  the  wheat  and  corn  pits  a  band  of  young  fel- 
lows, some  of  them  absolute  boys,  appeared.  These 
were  the  settlement  clerks.  They  carried  long  account 
books.  It  was  their  duty  to  get  the  trades  of  the  day  into 
a  "ring"  —  to  trace  the  course  of  a  lot  of  wheat  which 
had  changed  hands  perhaps  a  score  of  times  during  the 
trading  —  and  their  calls  of  "  Wheat  sold  to  Teller  & 
West,"  "  May  wheat  sold  to  Burbank  &  Co.,"  "  May  oats 
sold  to  Matthewson  &  Knight,"  "Wheat  sold  to  Gretry, 
Converse  &  Co.,"  began  to  echo  from  wall  to  wall  of  the 
almost  deserted  room. 

A  cat,  gray  and  striped,  and  wearing  a  dog  collar  of 
nickel  and  red  leather,  issued  from  the  coat-room  and 
picked  her  way  across  the  floor.  Evidently  she  was 
in  a  mood  of  the  most  ingratiating  friendliness,  and  as 
one  after  another  of  the  departing  traders  spoke  to  her, 
raised  her  tail  in  the  air  and  arched  her  back  against  the 
legs  of  the  empty  chairs.  The  janitor  put  in  an  appear- 
ance, lowering  the  tall  colored  windows  with  a  long  rod. 
A  noise  of  hammering  and  the  scrape  of  saws  began  to 
issue  from  a  corner  where  a  couple  of  carpenters  tinkered 
about  one  of  the  sami)le  tables. 

Then  at  last  even  the  settlement  clerks  took  them- 
selves off.  At  once  there  was  a  great  silence,  broken  only 
by  the  harsh  rasp  of  the  carpenters'  saws  and  the  voice 
of  the  janitor  exchanging  jokes  with  the  washerwomen. 
The  sound  of  footsteps  in  distant  quarters  re-echoed  as 
if  in  a  church. 

The  washerwomen  invaded  the  floor,  spreading  soapy 


THE  WHEAT  PIT  23 

and  steaming  water  before  them.  Over  by  the  sample 
tables  a  negro  porter  in  shirt-sleeves  swept  entire  bush- 
els of  spilled  wheat,  crushed,  broken,  and  sodden,  into 
his  dustpans. 

The  day's  campaign  was  over.  It  was  past  two  o'clock. 
On  the  great  dial  against  the  eastern  wall  the  indicator 
stood  —  sentinel  fashion  —  at  ninety-three.  Not  till 
the  following  morning  would  the  whirlpool,  the  great 
central  force  that  spun  the  Niagara  of  wheat  in  its  grip, 
thunder  and  bellow  again. 

Later  on  even  the  washerwomen,  even  the  porter  and 
janitor,  departed.  An  unbroken  silence,  the  peaceful- 
ness  of  an  untroubled  calm,  settled  over  the  place.  The 
rays  of  the  afternoon  sun  flooded  through  the  west 
windows  in  long  parallel  shafts  full  of  floating  golden 
motes.  There  was  no  sound;  nothing  stirred.  The  floor 
of  the  Board  of  Trade  was  deserted.  Alone,  on  the  edge 
of  the  abandoned  Wheat  Pit,  in  a  spot  where  the  sun- 
light fell  warmest  —  an  atom  of  life,  lost  in  the  immen- 
sity of  the  empty  floor  —  the  gray  cat  made  her  toilet, 
diligently  licking  the  fur  on  the  inside  of  her  thigh,  one 
leg,  as  if  dislocated,  thrust  into  the  air  above  her  head. 


HAPPINESS  1 

{Le  Bonheur)  ^ 

BY  GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT 

It  is  apparent  at  even  a  first  reading  that  the  essential  value 
of  Maupassant's  Happiness  lies  in  its  emotional  appeal.  But 
the  directness  and  strength  of  this  appeal  receive  greatly 
increased  efiFectiveness  by  means  of  the  setting  amid  which  the 
details  of  the  action  are  presented.  The  central  theme  of  the 
story,  the  permanence  of  true  love,  is  simple  in  the  extreme; 
arOficiaTTties  and  socfal  conventions  are  alien  to  its  very  spirit. 
Yet  the  story  is  set  in  the  midst  of  an  atmosphere  of  superfi- 
ciality, of  blindness  to  the  deeper  significance  of  life  and  human 
relations.  The  banqueters  discuss  love  with  all  the  shallow 
casuistry  of  those  who  have  never  experienced  the  emotion; 
in  the  words  of  George  Meredith,  they  are  but  "  fiddling  har- 
monics on  the  strings  of  sensualism."  Yet  against  this  back- 
ground of  dilettante  sentiment  the  author  throws  the  picture 
of  Suzanne  de  Sirmont's  fidelity  to  her  peasant  lover.  Then, 
too,  the  background  of  savage  Corsica,  still  sunk  in  brutality 
and  barbarism,  produces  an  almost  Rembrandtish  contrast  to 
the  delicacy  of  the  main  theme. 

The  reader  may  well  differentiate  between  the  purely  artistic 
effect  of  the  setting  in  this  story,  its  objective  character,  and 
the  element  of  environment  that  belongs  to  Hawthorne's  The 
Great  Stone  Face,  wherein  the  setting  is  more  intimately  a  part 
of  the  narrative,  moulding  and  controlling  the  character  of  the 
hero.  In  the  story  of  Ernest  the  setting  constitutes  an  inher- 
ent part  of  the  characterization;  in  Happiness  it  is  more  extrin- 
sic, but  of  great  value  in  heightening  the  effect  sought  by  the 
author. 

It  was  the  hour  for  tea,  just  before  the  lights  were 
brought  in.       •• 

The  villa  overlooked  the  sea.    The  sun  had   sunk 

'  Translated  for  this  work  by  the  Editor. 


HAPPINESS  25 

below  the  horizon,  and  the  rose-tinted  sky  was  all  flecked 
with  gold.  The  Mediterranean,  —  not  a  wave  or  a  rip- 
ple on  its  surface,  smooth,  and  still  aglow  with  the  light 
of  dying  day,  —  looked  like  a  gigantic  polished  metal 
plate. 

Far  away  on  the  right  the  jagged  mountains  stood  out 
in  black  profile  against  the  pale  purple  of  the  western  sky. 

We  talked  of  love;  we  discussed  that  familiar  theme; 
we  repeated  anew  the  old  commonplaces  that  have  al- 
ready been  repeated  so  many,  many  times.  Inspired  by 
the  tender  melancholy  of  the  twilight,  we  spoke  only  at 
intervals;  our  hearts  thrilled  with  sentimental  tender- 
ness, and  the  word  "love,"  constantly  recurring,  now  in 
a  strong  man's  voice  and  now  in  the  lighter  tones  of  a 
woman,  seemed  to  pervade  the  little  room,  to  flutter 
there  like  a  bird,  to  hover  about  us  like  a  spirit. 

Can  one  remain  in  love  for  many  years.'' 

"Yes,"  asserted  some. 

"No,"  declared  others' 

We  drew  distinctions,  we  established  limitations,  we 
cited  instances;  and  all  of  us,  men  and  women  alike, 
throbbed  with  emotions  that  rose  to  our  lips,  but  which 
we  could  not  frame  in  words.  With  enthusiasm  and 
eager  interest  we  discussed  that  commonplace  but  sov- 
ereign theme  —  the  tender  and  mysterious  union  of  two 
human  hearts. 

But  suddenly  some  one,  with  eyes  fixed  upon  the  dis- 
tant horizon,  exclaimed,  "Oh,  look  over  there!  What  is 
that?" 

Far  away  a  huge  gray  mass  was  rising  indistinctly  over 
the  sea. 

The  ladies  had  sprung  to  their  feet,  and  were  watch- 
ing this  surprising  phenomenon  which  they  had  never 
seen  before  and  which  thev  did  not  understand. 


26  SETTING 

One  of  the  company  said,  "It  is  Corsica.  You  see  it 
like  that  only  two  or  three  times  a  year,  under  certain 
peculiar  atmospheric  conditions,  when  the  air  is  per- 
fectly clear  and  the  mists  that  veil  the  distance  do  not 
hide  it  from  view." 

We  dimly  made  out  the  mountain-ridges;  we  thought 
that  we  could  distinguish  the  snow  of  their  summits. 
Every  one  was  surprised,  stirred,  almost  appalled  at  this 
sudden  apparition  of  another  world,  at  this  phantom 
rising  from  the  ocean.  Perhaps  those  who  like  Colum- 
bus set  out  across  unexplored  seas  had  strange  visions 
like  this. 

Then  an  old  gentleman,  who  had  thus  far  not  spoken, 
said,  "Listen.  In  that  island,  which  is  rising  before  us  as 
if  in  response  to  what  we  were  saying  just  now,  and  as  if 
to  remind  me  of  a  personal  experience  that  I  once  had, 
—  in  that  very  island  I  knew  of  a  wonderful  example 
of  faithful  love,  of  love  happy  beyond  belief. 

"Here  it  is  — 

"Five  years  ago  I  made  a  visit  to  Corsica.  That  sav- 
age island  is  less  familiar  to  us,  even  more  remote  than 
America,  although  it  is  sometimes  visible  from  the  very 
coast  of  France,  as  you  have  seen  to-day. 

"Picture  to  yourselves  a  world  still  plunged  in  chaos, 
a  storm  of  mountains  separated  by  narrow  ravines  down 
which  plunge  roaring  torrents;  not  a  single  plain,  but 
immense  billows  of  granite  and  gigantic  waves  of  hills 
covered  with  brush  or  lofty  forests  of  chestnut  and  pine. 
It  is  a  virgin  soil,  untilled,  desert,  although  now  and 
then  you  may  see  a  village  like  a  heap  of  rocks  upon  a 
mountain-top.  No  cultivatiom  no  tilling  of  the  soil,  no 
art.  You  never  chance  across  a  bit  of  carved  wood  or  of 
sculptured  stone,  never  a  trace  to  suggest  that  the  an- 
cestors of  the  inhabitants  had  either  a  crude  or  a  refined 


HAPPINESS  27 

taste  for  grace  and  beaut5^  In  this  wonderful  but  rude 
country  nothing  strikes  one  more  than  this  hereditary 
indifference ^to  the  search  after  attractive  form  that  men 
call  Art. 

"Italy,  where  every  palace  full  of  masterpieces  is 
itself  a  masterpiece,  where  marble,  wood,  bronze,  iron, 
metals,  and  precious  stones  attest  man's  genius,  where 
the  most  insignificant  antiques  that  lie  about  old  houses 
reveal  the  regard  for  beauty,  —  Italy  is  for  us  all  the 
sacred  country  of  our  love  because  she  shows  us  and 
gives  us  proof  of  the  might,  the  grandeur,  the  power, 
and  the  triumph  of  creative  genius. 

"And  face  to  face  with  her,  savage  Corsica  is  still  just 
what  she  was  at  the  beginning.  There  a  man  lives  in 
his  rude  hovel,  indifferent  to  everything  that  does  not 
concern  his  own  everyday  life  or  his  own  family  feuds. 
He  still  betrays  the  vices  and  the  virtues  of  the  savage: 
he  is  violent,  malignant,  ready  to  commit  murder  with- 
out remorse;  yet  with  these  brutal  instincts  he  is  hos- 
pitable, generous,  devoted,  simple;  he  opens  his  door 
freely  to  the  traveler,  and  at  the  slightest  sign  of  sym- 
pathy he  shows  loyal  friendship. 

"For  a  month  I  wandered  about  this  wonderful  island 
with  the  feeling  that  I  was  at  the  very  ends  of  the  earth. 
Not  an  inn,  not  a  tavern,  not  a  road.  By  mule-paths  you 
reach  hamlet  j  clinging  to  the  mountain-sides  and  over- 
looking the  A'inding  abj'sses  up  which  by  night  you  hear 
ascending  '.he  continuous  roar,  the  deep,  dull  voice  of  the 
cataract.  You  knock  at  the  door  of  a  house.  You  ask 
food  line,  shelter  until  the  next  day.  You  sit  down  at  the 
humbk  board;  you  slooj)  under  the  humble  roof;  and,  in 
the  morning,  you  grasp  in  farewell  the  outstretched  hand 
of  ycur  host,  who  escorts  you  to  the  outskirts  of  the 
villa  ge. 


28  SETTING 

"Now,  one  night,  after  walking  for  ten  hours,  I  reached 
a  little  cottage  quite  apart  by  itself  at  the  bottom  of  a 
narrow  valley  which,  a  league  farther  on,  opened  to  the 
sea.  Like  two  gloomy  walls  the  steep  slopes  of  the  moun- 
tain, overgrown  with  brush,  fallen  rocks,  and  great  trees, 
inclosed  this  dismal  ravine. 

"Around  the  cottage  were  a  few  vines,  a  little  garden, 
and,  farther  on,  some  large  chestnut  trees  —  in  a  word, 
enough  to  live  on,  a  fortune  in  this  poverty-stricken 
country. 

"The  woman  who  greeted  me  was  old,  severe,  and 
neat,  —  unusually  so.  A  man,  seated  on  a  straw  chair, 
rose  to  meet  me,  then  sat  down  again  without  a 
word. 

"'Excuse  him,'  said  his  companion;  'he  is  deaf  now. 
He  is  eighty -two  years  old.' 

"To  my  surprise,  she  spoke  the  French  of  France. 

"'You  do  not  belong  to  Corsica.^*'  I  asked. 

"'No,'  she  replied;  'we  are  from  the  Continent.   But 
^  we  have  lived  here  fifty  years.' 

"A  shock,  a  feeling  almost  of  terror,  thrilled  me  at  the 
thought  of  fifty  years  passed  in  this  cheerless  retreat  so 
far  from  the  haunts  of  man. 

"An  old  shepherd  came  in,  and  we  sat  down  to  the 
solitary  dish  that  constituted  the  meal,  a  thick  soup  of 
potatoes,  lard,  and  cabbage,  all  boiled  together. 

"When  we  had  finished  our  short  repast,  T  sat  down 
by  the  door,  depressed  by  the  melancholy  of  tne  gloomy 
surroundings,  my  heart  weighed  down  with  the  de- 
jection that  sometimes  seizes  travelers  on  cheerless 
evenings  and  in  lonely  spots.  It  seems  as  if  the  end  of 
everything  is  at  hand  —  of  life,  of  the  universe  itself. 
Suddenly  we  realize  the  frightful  misery  of  existence, 
the  isolation  of  self,  the  nothingness  of  all,  the  dreariness 


HAPPINESS  29 

of  a  heart  that  deludes  itself  with  dreams  up  to  the  very 
moment  of  death. 

"The  old  woman  joined  me,  and,  impelled  by  the 
curiosity  that  lies  at  the  bottom  of  even  the  most 
resigned  heart,  she  said,  'You  come  from  France,  then?* 

"'Yes,  I  am  traveling  about  for  pleasure.' 

"'You  are  from  Paris,  perhaps?' 

"'No,  I  am  from  Nancy.' 

"It  seemed  to  me  that  some  deep  emotion  stirred 
her.  How  I  perceived,  or,  rather,  how  I  felt  it,  I  do  not 
know. 

"'You  are  from  Nancy?'  she  repeated  slowly. 

"The  man  appeared  in  the  doorway,  impassive  like 
all  deaf  people. 

"'Never  mind  him,'  she  said;  'he  hears  nothing.* 

"Then,  after  a  few  seconds:  'So  you  know  people  at 
Nancy?' 

'"Yes,  indeed;  nearly  everj^body.' 

'"The  family  of  Sainte-Allaize?' 

"'Oh,  yes.  Very  well.  They  were  friends  of  my 
father.' 

" '  What  is  your  name? ' 

"I  told  her.  She  looked  searchingly  at  me;  then,  in 
the  deep  voice  of  one  who  is  stirred  by  memories  of  the 
past,  she  said:  'Yes,  yes.  I  remember  it  well.  And  the 
Brisemares,  what  has  become  of  them?' 

"'They  are  all  dead.' 

"'Ah!  And  the  Sirmonts?   Do  you  know  them?' 

"'Yes.   The  last  of  tlie  family  is  a  general.' 

"Then,  trembling  with  de^p  emotion,  with  a  powerful 
passion  that  I  did  not  understand,  moved  with  a  desire 
to  confess  to  me,  to  reveal  everything,  to  sjieak  of 
secrets  that  she  had  long  kej)t  locked  in  her  heart  and  of 
persons  the  mention  of  whose  name  had  aroused  her,  she 


30  /       SETTING 

,/       said,  'Yes.  Henri  de  Sirmont.  I  know  him  well.  He  is 
my  brother.' 

"Aghast  with  surprise,  I  stared  at  her.  And  suddenly 
it  all  came  to  me. 
^         "A  long  time  ago  it  had  caused  a  great  scandal  among 
the  nobility  of  Lorraine.  Suzanne  de  Sirmont,  a  young 
girl,  beautiful  and  wealthy,  had  made  a  runaway  match 
|.  with  a  non-commissioned  officer  in  the  regiment  of  hus- 

sars commanded  by  her  father. 

"He  was  a  handsome  young  fellow;  he  wore  his  blue 
uniform  well,  this  peasant  soldier  who  had  won  his 
colonel's  daughter.  She  had  seen  him,  noted  him,  fallen 
in  love  with  him,  doubtless  as  she  watched  the  squad- 
rons filing  by.  But  how  she  had  entered  into  conver- 
sation with  him,  how  they  had  contrived  to  see  each 
other,  to  hear  from  each  other,  how  she  had  ventured 
to  let  him  know  that  she  loved  him,  —  this  no  one  ever 
knew. 

"No  one  ever  guessed  the  secret,  never  even  sus- 

jjected  it.    One  evening,  just  as  the  soldier  had  com- 

^      pleted  his  term  of  service,  they,  disappeared.  A  careful 

search  was  made  for  them,  but  they  were  never  found. 

Nothing  was  ever  heard  from  them,  and  her  family 

considered  her  as  dead. 

"And  thus  I  found  her  in  this  gloomy  valley. 

"  Then  in  my  turn  I  spoke:  'Yes,  I  remember  it  well. 
You  are  Mademoiselle  Suzanne.' 

"She  nodded  'yes.'   Tears  fell  from  her  eyes.   Then, 
indicating  with  a  glance  the  old  man  motionless  at  the 
threshold  of  his  hut,  she  said :  'That  is  he.' 
^  "And  I  understood  that  she  still  loved  him;  that  she 

still  saw  him  with  the  eyes  of  affection. 

"'Have  you  been  happy.?'  I  asked. 

"She  replied  in  a  voice  that  came  from  her  very  heart, 


HAPPINESS  31 

*0h,  yes.  Very  happy.  He  has  made  me  very  happy.  I 
have  never  regretted  it.' 

"Amazed,  stirred  by  the  power  of  love,  I  looked  at  her 
sadly.  This  rich  young  girl  had  followed  this  man,  this 
peasant.  She  had  become  a  peasant  herself.  She  had 
become  reconciled  to  a  life  without  pleasure,  without 
luxurj%  without  attractiveness  of  any  sort.  She  had 
stooped  to  his  simple  habits.  And  she  still  loved  him. 
She  had  become  the  wife  of  a  rustic,  in  a  cap,  in  a  cloth 
skirt.  Seated  on  a  straw  chair,  she  ate  from  an  earthen- 
ware dish  on  a  wooden  table  a  stew  of  cabbage  and 
potatoes  cooked  in  lard.  She  slept  on  a  straw  mattress 
by  his  side. 

"  Her  only  thought  had  been  of  him.  She  felt  no  regret 
for  her  former  finery,  her  gowns,  her  various  luxuries;  no 
longing  for  soft  upholsteries,  for  the  perfumed  warmth 
of  tapestried  chambers,  for  easy  repose  on  beds  of  down. 
She  had  never  felt  need  of  aught  but  him;  if  he  was  near, 
she  asked  for  nothing. 

"While  she  was  still  young  she  had  given  up  her  life, 
her  world,  those  who  had  cared  for  her  and  loved  her. 
Alone  with  him  she  had  come  into  this  savage  valley. 
He  had  been  everything  to  her,  the  object  of  her  every 
desire,  of  her  dreams,  of  her  trust,  of  her  hopes.  He  had 
filled  her  life  with  happiness. 

"She  could  not  have  been  happier. 

"And  all  that  night  as  I  listened  to  thehea\'y  breath- 
ing of  the  old  soldier  stretched  on  his  pallet  by  the  side 
of  her  who  had  followed  him  so  far,  I  thought  upon  this 
strangely  simple  adventure,  of  this  happiness  so  com- 
plete but  founded  on  so  little. 

"And  as  I  went  away  at  sunrise  I  pressed  the  hands  of 
the  aged  couple." 


32  SETTING 

The  narrator  was  silent. 

A  lady  said,  "Well,  her  ideals  were  too  low,  her 
wants  too  easily  satisfied,  her  needs  too  simple.  She 
must  have  been  a  fool." 

Another  in  a  low  voice  murmured,  "What  of  it.?  She 
was  happy." 

And  out  beyond,  at  the  edge  of  the  horizon,  Corsica 
was  sinking  into  the  night,  slowly  dropping  into  the  sea, 
effacing  the  great  shadow  that  had  appeared  as  if  to  tell 
in  person  the  story  of  the  two  humble  lovers  sheltered 
and  protected  by  her  shores. 


OF  A   INIIRROR  AND  A   BELL» 

BY    LAFCADIO   IIEARN 

This  narrative,  like  many  of  Lafcadio  Hearn's  translations 
from  the  Japanese,  is  illustrative  of  local  color  and  atmosphere, 
reproducing  in  wonderfully  clear  and  simple  style  the  poetry  of 
Oriental  imagination.  "Some  of  his  tales  are  of  the  long  ago, 
and  yet  they  seem  to  illuminate  the  very  souls  and  minds  of  the 
little  men  who  are  at  this  hour  crowding  the  decks  of  Japan's 
armored  cruisers.  But  many  of  the  stories  are  about  women 
and  children,  —  the  lovely  materials  from  which  the  best 
fairy-tales  of  the  world  have  been  woven.  They,  too,  are 
strange,  these  Japanese  maidens  and  wives  and  keen-eyed, 
dark-haired  girls  and  boys;  they  are  like  us  and  yet  not  like 
us;  and  the  sky  and  the  hills  and  the  flowers  are  all  different 
from  ours.  Yet  by  a  magic  of  which  Mr.  Hearn,  almost  alone 
among  contemporary  writers,  is  the  master,  in  these  delicate, 
transparent,  ghostly  sketches  of  a  world  unreal  to  us,  there  is  a 
haunting  sense  of  spiritual  reality."  ^ 

Throughout  the  selection  here  presented  there  is  the  air  of 
strangeness,  of  something  foreign  to  our  Occidental  civiliza- 
tion, and  this  atmosphere,  or  tone,  is,  perhaps,  the  element 
that  gives  the  narrative  its  peculiar  charm. 

Eight  centuries  ago,  the  priests  of  Mugenyama,  in  tlie 
province  of  Totomi,  wanted  a  big  bell  for  their  temple; 
and  they  asked  the  women  of  their  parish  to  help  them 
by  contributing  old  bronze  mirrors  for  bell-ractal. 

[Even  to-day,  in  the  courts  of  certain  Japanese  tem- 
ples, you  may  see  heaps  of  old  bronze  mirrors  contributed 
for  such  a  purpose.  The  largest  collection  of  this  kind 
that  I  ever  saw  was  in  the  court  of  a  temple  of  the  Jodo 
sect,  at  Hakata,  in  Kyushu :  the  mirrors  had  been  given 

1  From  Ku-mdan,  published  by  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 
^  From  the  Preface  to  Kwaidan. 


34  SETTING 

for  the  making  of  a  bronze  statue  of  Amida,  thirty-three 
feet  high.] 

There  was  at  that  time  a  young  woman,  a  farmer's 
wife,  Hving  at  Mugenyama,  who  presented  her  mirror 
to  the  temple,  to  be  used  for  bell-metal.  But  afterwards 
she  much  regretted  her  mirror.  She  remembered  things 
that  her  mother  had  told  her  about  it;  and  she  remem- 
bered that  it  had  belonged,  not  only  to  her  mother  but 
to  her  mother's  mother  and  grandmother;  and  she  re-. 
membered  some  happy  smiles  which  it  had  reflected.  Of 
course,  if  she  could  have  offered  the  priests  a  certain  sum 
of  money  in  place  of  the  mirror,  she  could  have  asked 
them  to  give  back  her  heirloom.  But  she  had  not  the 
money  necessary.  Whenever  she  went  to  the  temple, 
she  saw  her  mirror  lying  in  the  courtyard,  behind  a  rail- 
ing, among  hundreds  of  other  mirrors  heaped  there  to- 
gether. She  knew  it  by  the  Sho-Chiku-Bai  in  relief  on 
the  back  of  it,  —  those  three  fortunate  emblems  of  Pine, 
Bamboo,  and  Plumflower,  which  delighted  her  baby-eyes 
when  her  mother  first  showed  her  the  mirror.  She  longed 
for  some  chance  to  steal  the  mirror,  and  hide  it,  —  that 
she  might  thereafter  treasure  it  always.  But  the  chance 
did  not  come;  and  she  became  very  unhappy,  —  felt  as 
if  she  had  foolishly  given  away  a  part  of  her  life.  She 
thought  about  the  old  saying  that  a  mirror  is  the  Soul  of 
a  Woman  (a  saying  mystically  expressed,  by  the  Chinese 
character  for  Soul,  upon  the  backs  of  many  bronze  mir- 
rors), —  and  she  feared  that  it  was  true  in  weirder  ways 
than  she  had  before  imagined.  But  she  could  not  dare  to 
speak  of  her  pain  to  anybody. 

Now,  when  all  the  mirrors  contributed  for  the  Mu- 
genyama bell  had  been  sent  to  the  foundry,  the  bell- 


OF  A  MIRROR  AND  A  BELL  SB 

founders  discovered  that  there  was  one  mirror  among 
them  which  would  not  melt.  Again  and  again  they  tried 
to  melt  it;  but  it  resisted  all  their  efforts.  Evidently  the 
woman  who  had  given  that  mirror  to  the  temple  must 
have  regretted  the  giving.  She  had  not  presented  her 
offering  with  all  her  heart;  and  therefore  her  selfish  soul, 
remaining  attached  to  the  mirror,  kept  it  hard  and  cold 
in  the  midst  of  the  furnace. 

Of  course  everybody  heard  of  the  matter,  and  every- 
body soon  knew  whose  mirror  it  was  that  would  not 
melt.  And  because  of  this  public  exposure  of  her  secret 
fault,  the  poor  woman  became  very  much  ashamed  and 
very  angry.  And  as  she  could  not  bear  the  shame,  she 
drowned  herself,  after  having  written  a  farewell  letter 
containing  these  words :  — 

"  When  I  am  dead,  it  will  not  be  difficult  to  melt  the  mir- 
ror and  to  cast  the  bell.  But,  to  the  person  who  breaks  that 
bell  by  ringing  it,  great  wealth  will  be  given  by  the  ghost 
of  me. 

—  You  must  know  that  the  last  wish  or  promise  of 
anybody  who  dies  in  anger,  or  performs  suicide  in  anger, 
is  generally  supposed  to  possess  a  supernatural  force. 
After  the  dead  woman's  mirror  had  been  melted,  and  the 
bell  had  been  successfully  cast,  people  remembered  the 
words  of  that  letter.  They  felt  sure  that  the  spirit  of  the 
writer  would  give  wealth  to  the  breaker  of  the  bell;  and, 
as  soon  as  the  bell  had  been  suspended  in  the  court  of  the 
temple,  they  went  in  multitudes  to  ring  it.  With  all  their 
migiit  and  main  they  swung  the  ringing-beam;  but  the 
bell  proved  to  be  a  good  bell,  and  it  bravely  withstood 
their  assaults.  Nevertheless,  the  people  were  not  easily 
discouraged.  Day  after  day,  at  all  hours,  they  continued 


36  SETTING 

to  ring  the  bell  furiously,  —  caring  nothing  whatever  for 
the  protests  of  the  priests.  So  the  ringing  became  an 
affliction;  and  the  priests  could  not  endure  it;  and  they 
got  rid  of  the  bell  by  rolling  it  down  the  hill  into  a 
swamp.  The  swamp  was  deep,  and  swallowed  it  up,  — 
and  that  was  the  end  of  the  bell.  Only  its  legend  re- 
mains; and  in  that  legend  it  is  called  the  Mugen-Kane,  or 
Bell  of  Mugen, 

Now  there  are  queer  old  Japanese  beliefs  in  the  mag- 
ical efficacy  of  a  certain  mental  operation  implied, 
though  not  described,  by  the  verb  nazoraeru.  The  word 
itself  cannot  be  adequately  rendered  by  any  English 
word;  for  it  is  used  in  relation  to  many  kinds  of  mi- 
metic magic,  as  well  as  in  relation  to  the  performance 
of  many  religious  acts  of  faith.  Common  meanings  of 
nazoraeru,  according  to  dictionaries,  are  "to  imitate," 
"to  compare,"  "to  liken";  but  the  esoteric  meaning 
is  to  substitute,  in  imagination,  one  object  or  action  for 
another,  so  as  to  bring  about  some  magical  or  miraculous 
result. 

For  example: — you  cannot  afford  to  build  a  Buddhist 
temple;  but  you  can  easily  lay  a  pebble  before  the  image 
of  the  Buddha,  with  the  same  pious  feeling  that  would 
prompt  you  to  build  a  temple  if  you  were  rich  enough  to 
build  one.  The  merit  of  so  offering  the  pebble  becomes 
equal,  or  almost  equal,  to  the  merit  of  erecting  a  tem- 
ple. .  .  .  You  cannot  read  the  six  thousand  seven  hun- 
dred and  seventy -one  volumes  of  the  Buddhist  texts ;  but 
you  can  make  a  revolving  library,  containing  them,  turn 
round,  by  pushing  it  like  a  windlass.  And  if  you  push 
with  an  earnest  wish  that  you  could  read  the  six  thous- 
and seven  hundred  and  seventy-one  volumes,  you  will 
acquire  the  same  merit  as  the  reading  of  them  would 


OF  A  MIRROR  AND  A  BELL  37 

enable  you  to  gain.  ...  So  much  will  perhaps  suffice  to 
ex{)lain  the  religious  meanings  of  nazoraeru. 

The  magical  meanings  could  not  all  be  explained  with- 
out a  great  variety  of  examples;  but,  for  present  pur- 
poses, the  following  will  serve.  If  you  should  make  a 
little  man  of  straw,  for  the  same  reason  that  Sister  Helen 
made  a  little  man  of  wax,  —  and  nail  it,  with  nails  not 
less  than  five  inches  long,  to  some  tree  in  a  temple-grove 
at  the  Hour  of  the  Ox, —  and  if  the  person,  imaginatively 
represented  by  that  little  straw  man,  shoidd  die  there- 
after in  atrocious  agony,  —  that  would  illustrate  one 
signification  of  nazoraeru.  .  .  .  Or,  let  us  suppose  that  a 
robber  has  entered  your  house  during  the  night,  and 
carried  away  your  valuables.  If  you  can  discover  the 
footprints  of  that  robber  in  your  garden,  and  then 
promptly  burn  a  very  large  moxa  on  each  of  them,  the 
soles  of  the  feet  of  the  robber  will  become  inflamed,  and 
will  allow  him  no  rest  until  he  returns,  of  his  own  accord, 
to  put  himself  at  your  mercy.  That  is  another  kind  of 
mimetic  magic  expressed  by  the  term  nazoraeru.  And 
a  third  kind  is  illustrated  by  various  legends  of  the 
Mugen-Kane. 

After  the  bell  had  been  rolled  into  the  swamp,  there 
was,  of  course,  no  more  chance  of  ringing  it  in  such  wise 
as  to  break  it.  But  persons  who  regretted  this  loss  of 
opportunity  would  strike  and  break  objects  imagina- 
tively sul)stituted  for  the  bell,  —  thus  hoping  to  please 
the  spirit  of  the  owner  of  the  mirror  that  had  made  so 
much  trouble.  One  of  these  persons  was  a  woman  called 
Umegae,  —  famed  in  Japanese  legend  because  of  her 
relation  to  Kajiwara  Kagesue,  a  warrior  of  the  Heike 
clan.  While  the  pair  were  traveling  together,  Kajiwara 
one  day  found  himself  in  great  straits  for  want  of  monev; 

4  5  3  5  G 


/ 


88  SETTING 

and  Umegae,  remembering  the  tradition  of  the  Bell  of 
Mugen,  took  a  basin  of  bronze,  and,  mentally  represent- 
ing it  to  be  the  bell,  beat  upon  it  until  she  broke  it,  — 
crying  out,  at  the  same  time,  for  three  hundred  pieces  of 
gold.  A  guest  of  the  inn  where  the  pair  were  stopping 
made  inquiry  as  to  the  cause  of  the  banging  and  the  cry- 
ing, and,  on  learning  the  story  of  the  trouble,  actually 
presented  Umegae  with  three  hundred  ryo  in  gold.  After- 
wards a  song  was  made  about  Umegae's  basin  of  bronze; 
and  that  song  is  sung  by  dancing-girls  even  to  this  day :  — 

Umegae  no  chozubachi  tatait6 
0-kan6  ga  deru  naraba, 
Mina  San  mi-uke  wo 
Sore  tanomimasu. 

["  //,  by  striking  upon  the  wash-basin  of  UmSgae,  I  could  make  honor- 
ble  money  come  to  me,  then  would  I  negotiate  for  the  freedom  of  all  my  girl 
comrades."] 

After  this  happening,  the  fame  of  the  Mugen-Kane 
became  great;  and  many  people  followed  the  example  of 
Umegae,  —  thereby  hoping  to  emulate  her  luck.  Among 
these  folk  was  a  dissolute  farmer  who  lived  near  Mugen- 
yama,  on  the  bank  of  the  Oigawa.  Having  wasted  his 
substance  in  riotous  living,  this  farmer  made  for  himself, 
out  of  the  mud  in  his  garden,  a  clay -model  of  the  Mugen- 
Kane;  and  he  beat  the  clay -bell,  and  broke  it,  —  crying 
out  the  while  for  great  wealth. 

Then,  out  of  the  ground  before  him,  rose  up  the  figure 
of  a  white-robed  woman,  with  long,  loose-flowing  hair, 
holding  a  covered  jar.  And  the  woman  said:  "I  have 
come  to  answer  your  fervent  prayer  as  it  deserves  to  be 
answered.  Take,  therefore,  this  jar."  So  saying,  she  put 
the  jar  into  his  hands,  and  disappeared. 

Into  his  house  the  happy  man  rushed,  to  tell  his  wife 
the  good  news.    He  set  down  in  front  of  her  the  covered 


OF  A  MIRROR  AND  A  BELL  39 

jar,  —  which  was  heavy,  —  and  they  opened  it  together. 
And  they  found  that  it  was  filled,  up  to  the  very  brim, 
with  .  .  . 

But,  no!  —  I  really  cannot  tell  you  with  what  it  was 
filled. 


THE   FALL    OF   THE    HOUSE   OF  USHER 

BY  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

The  unity  of  tone  that  permeates  The  Fall  of  the  House  of 
Usher  is  indicated  in  the  words,  "About  the  whole  mansion 
and  domain  there  hung  an  atmosphere  peculiar  to  themselves 
and  their  immediate  vicinity  —  an  atmosphere  which  had  no 
affinity  with  the  air  of  heaven,  but  which  had  reeked  up  from 
the  decayed  trees,  and  the  gray  wall,  and  the  silent  tarn  —  a 
pestilent,  mystic  vapor,  dull,  sluggish,  faintly  discernible,  and 
leaden-hued."  The  mood  of  the  story  is  that  of  unreclaimed 
dreariness,  gloomy  depression,  sickening  terror.  From  begin- 
ning to  end  this  mood  is  unrelieved.  From  the  first  glimpse  of 
the  gray  sedge,  the  ghostly  tree-stems,  and  the  vacant,  eye- 
like windows  inverted  in  the  dull  waters  of  the  tarn,  to  the 
rushing  asunder  of  the  walls  and  their  submersion  beneath 
the  sullen  waters,  every  detail  is  drawn  to  the  pattern  of  the 
one  sentiment.  The  imaginary  narrator,  we  are  told,  was  of  a 
cheerful  disposition  by  nature,  but  he  is  not  proof  against  the 
gloomy  surroundings;  leaden  depression  of  soul  weighs  upon 
him  throughout  the  narrative. 

In  entire  accord  with  this  dreariness  of  spirit,  with  the  hide- 
ous events,  and  with  the  gruesome  personalities  that  contribute 
to  the  action  is  the  background  of  the  gloomy  mansion,  —  the 
decaying  dilapidation  of  the  building,  the  somber  tapestries, 
the  encrimsoned  rays  of  light  streaming  through  the  narrow 
casements,  the  ghostly  sounds  reechoing  through  the  deserted 
halls.  The  story  is  an  instance  of  the  dramatic  effects  that 
may  be  secured  through  a  masterly  harmonizing  of  all  the  ele- 
ments that  enter  into  narrative. 

Son  copur  est  un  luth  suspendu; 
Sitot  qu'on  le  touche  il  resoane. 

De  B^rangeb. 

During  the  whole  of  a  (lull,  dark,  and  soundless  day 
in  the  autumn  of  the  year,  when  the  clouds  hung  oppres- 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER       41 

sively  low  in  the  heavens,  I  had  been  passing  alone,  on 
horseback,  through  a  singularly  dreary  tract  of  country; 
and  at  length  found  myself,  as  the  shades  of  evening 
drew  on,  within  view  of  the  melancholy  House  of  Usher. 
I  know  not  how  it  was  —  but,  with  the  first  glimpse  of 
the  building,  a  sense  of  insufferable  gloom  pervaded  my 
spirit.  I  say  insufferable;  for  the  feeling  was  unrelieved 
by  any  of  that  half-pleasurable,  because  poetic,  senti- 
ment, with  which  the  mind  usually  receives  even  the 
sternest  natural  images  of  the  desolate  or  terrible.  I 
looked  upon  the  scene  before  me  —  upon  the  mere  house, 
and  the  simple  landscape  features  of  the  domain  —  upon 
the  bleak  walls  —  upon  the  vacant,  eye-like  windows  — 
upon  a  few  rank  sedges  —  and  upon  a  few  white  trunks 
of  decayed  trees  —  with  an  utter  depression  of  soul 
which  I  can  compare  to  no  earthly  sensation  more  prop- 
erly than  to  the  after-dream  of  the  reveler  upon  opium 
—  the  bitter  lapse  into  everyday  life  —  the  hideous 
dropping  off  of  the  veil.  There  was  an  iciness,  a  sinking, 
a  sickening  of  the  heart  —  an  unredeemed  dreariness  of 
thought  •which  no  goading  of  the  imagination  could  tor- 
ture into  aught  of  the  sublime.  What  was  it  —  I  paused 
to  think  —  what  was  it  that  so  unnerved  me  in  the  con- 
templation of  the  House  of  Usher?  It  was  a  mystery  all 
insoluble;  nor  could  I  grapple  with  the  shadowj^  fancies 
that  crowded  upon  me  as  I  pondered.  I  was  forced  to 
fall  back  upon  the  unsatisfactory  conclusion,  that  while, 
beyond  doubt,  there  are  combinations  of  vcrj'  simple 
natural  objects  which  have  the  power  of  thus  affecting 
us,  still  the  analysis  of  this  power  lies  among  considera- 
tions beyond  our  depth.  It  was  possible,  I  reflected,  that 
a  mere  different  arrangement  of  the  particulars  of  the 
scene,  of  the  details  of  the  picture,  would  be  sufficient 
to  modify,  or  perhaps  to  annihilate  its  capacity  for  sor- 


y 


42  SETTING 

rowful  impression;  and,  acting  upon  this  idea,  I  reined 
my  horse  to  the  precipitous  brink  of  a  black  and  lurid 
tarn  that  lay  in  unruffled  luster  by  the  dwelling,  and 
gazed  down  —  but  with  a  shudder  even  more  thrilling 
than  before  —  upon  the  remodeled  and  inverted  images 
of  the  gray  sedge,  and  the  ghastly  tree-stems,  and  the 
vacant  and  eye-like  windows. 

Nevertheless,  in  this  mansion  of  gloom  I  now  pro- 
posed to  myself  a  sojourn  of  some  weeks.  Its  proprietor, 
Roderick  Usher,  had  been  one  of  my  boon  companions 
in  boyhood;  but  many  years  had  elapsed  since  our  last 
meeting.  A  letter,  however,  had  lately  reached  me  in 
a  distant  part  of  the  country  —  a  letter  from  him  — 
which,  in  its  wildly  importunate  nature,  had  admitted  of 
no  other  than  the  personal  reply.  The  manuscript  gave 
evidence  of  nervous  agitation.  The  writer  spoke  of  acute 
bodily  illness  —  of  a  mental  disorder  which  oppressed 
him  —  and  of  an  earnest  desire  to  see  me,  as  his  best, 
and  indeed  his  only  personal,  friend,  with  a  view  of 
attempting,  by  the  cheerfulness  of  my  society,  some 
alleviation  of  his  malady.  It  was  the  manner  in  which 
all  this,  and  much  more,  was  said  —  it  was  the  apparent 
heart  that  went  with  his  request  —  which  allowed  me  no 
room  for  hesitation;  and  I  accordingly  obeyed  forthwith 
what  I  still  considered  a  very  singular  summons. 

Although,  as  boys,  we  had  been  even  intimate  asso- 
ciates, yet  I  really  knew  little  of  my  friend.  His  reserve 
had  been  always  excessive  and  habitual.  I  was  aware, 
however,  that  his  very  ancient  family  had  been  noted 
time  out  of  mind,  for  a  peculiar  sensibility  of  tempera 
ment,  displaying  itself,  through  long  ages,  in  many 
works  of  exalted  art,  and  manifested,  of  late,  in  repeated 
deeds  of  munificent  yet  unobtrusive  charity,  as  well  as 
in  a  passionate  devotion  to  the  intricacies,  perhaps  even 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER       43 

more  than  to  the  orthodox  and  easily  recognizable  beau- 
ties, of  musical  science,  I  had  learned,  too,  the  very 
remarkable  fact,  that  the  stem  of  the  Usher  race,  all 
time-honored  as  it  was,  had  put  forth,  at  no  period,  any 
enduring  branch;  in  other  words,  that  the  entire  family 
lay  in  the  direct  line  of  descent,  and  had  always,  with 
veiy  trifling  and  very  temporary  variation,  so  lain.  It 
was  this  deficiency,  I  considered,  while  running  over  in 
thought  the  perfect  keeping  of  the  character  of  the 
premises  with  the  accredited  character  of  the  people, 
and  while  speculating  upon  the  possible  influence  which 
the  one,  in  the  long  lapse  of  centuries,  might  have  exer- 
cised upon  the  other  —  it  was  this  deficiency,  perhaps, 
of  collateral  issue,  and  the  consequent  undeviating  trans- 
mission, from  sire  to  son,  of  the  patrimony  with  the 
name,  which  had,  at  length,  so  identified  the  two  as  to 
merge  the  original  title  of  the  estate  in  the  quaint  and 
equivocal  appellation  of  the  "House  of  Usher"  —  an 
appellation  which  seemed  to  include,  in  the  minds  of  the 
peasantry  who  used  it,  both  the  family  and  the  family 
mansion. 

I  have  said  that  the  sole  effect  of  my  somewhat  child- 
ish experiment  —  that  of  looking  down  within  the  tarn 
—  had  been  to  deepen  the  first  singular  impression. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  consciousness  of  the 
rapid  increase  of  nay  superstition  —  for  why  should  I 
not  so  term  it?  —  served  mainly  to  accelerate  the  in- 
crease itself.  Such,  I  have  long  known,  is  the  paradox- 
ical law  of  all  sentiments  having  terror  as  a  basis.  And  it 
might  have  been  for  this  reason  only,  that,  when  I  again 
uplifted  my  eyes  to  the  house  itself,  from  its  image  in  the 
pool,  there  grew  in  my  mind  a  strange  fancy  —  a  fancy 
so  ridiculous,  indeed,  that  I  but  mention  it  to  show  the 
vivid  force  of  the  sensations  which  oppressed  me.  I  had 


44  SETTING 

so  worked  upon  my  imagination  as  really  to  believe  that 
about  the  whole  mansion  and  domain  there  hung  an 
atmosphere  peculiar  to  themselves  and  their  immediate 
vicinity  —  an  atmosphere  which  had  no  aflBnity  with 
the  air  of  heaven,  but  which  had  reeked  up  from  the 
decayed  trees,  and  the  gray  wall,  and  the  silent  tarn  — 
a  pestilent  and  mystic  vapor,  dull,  sluggish,  faintly  dis- 
cernible, and  leaden-hued. 

Shaking  off  from  my  spirit  what  must  have  been  a 
dream,  I  scanned  more  narrowly  the  real  aspect  of  the 
building.  Its  principal  feature  seemed  to  be  that  of  an 
excessive  antiquity.  The  discoloration  of  ages  had  been 
great.  Minute  fungi  overspread  the  whole  exterior, 
hanging  in  a  fine,  tangled  webwork  from  the  eaves.  Yet 
all  this  was  apart  from  any  extraordinary  dilapidation. 
No  portion  of  the  masonry  had  fallen;  and  there  ap- 
peared to  be  a  wild  inconsistency  between  its  still  perfect 
adaptation  of  parts  and  the  crumbling  condition  of  the 
individual  stones.  In  this  there  was  much  that  reminded 
me  of  the  specious  totality  of  old  woodwork  which  has 
rotted  for  long  years  in  some  neglected  vault,  with  no 
disturbance  from  the  breath  of  the  external  air.  Beyond 
this  indication  of  extensive  decay,  however,  the  fabric 
gave  little  token  of  instability.  Perhaps  the  eye  of  a 
scrutinizing  observer  might  have  discovered  a  barely 
perceptible  fissure,  which,  extending  from  the  roof  of 
the  building  in  front,  made  its  way  down  the  wall  in  a 
zigzag  direction,  until  it  became  lost  in  the  sullen  waters 
of  the  tarn. 

Noticing  these  things,  I  rode  over  a  short  causeway 
to  the  house.  A  servant  in  waiting  took  my  horse,  and 
I  entered  the  Gothic  archway  of  the  hall.  A  valet,  of 
stealthy  step,  thence  conducted  me,  in  silence,  through 
many  dark  and  intricate  passages  in  my  progress  to  the 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER       45 

studio  of  his  master.  Much  that  I  encountered  on  the 
way  contributed,  I  know  not  how,  to  heighten  the  vague 
sentiments  of  which  I  huve  already  spoken.  While  the 
objects  around  me  —  while  the  carvings  of  the  ceilings, 
the  somber  tapestries  of  the  walls,  the  ebon  blackness 
of  the  floors,  and  the  j)hantasmagoric  armorial  trophies 
which  rattled  as  I  strode,  were  but  matters  to  which,  or 
to  such  as  which,  I  had  been  accustomed  from  my  in- 
fancy, —  while  I  hesitated  not  to  acknowledge  how 
familiar  was  all  this,  —  I  still  wondered  to  find  how 
unfamiliar  were  the  fancies  which  ordinary  images  were 
stirring  up.  On  one  of  the  staircases  I  met  the  physician 
of  the  family.  His  countenance,  I  thought,  wore  a  min- 
gled expression  of  low  cunning  and  perplexity.  He  ac- 
costed me  with  trepidation  and  passed  on.  The  valet 
now  threw  open  a  door  and  ushered  me  into  the  presence 
of  his  master. 

The  room  in  which  I  found  myself  was  very  large  and 
lofty.  The  windows  were  long,  narrow,  and  pointed,  and 
at  so  vast  a  distance  from  the  black  oaken  floor  as  to  be 
altogether  inaccessible  from  within.  Feeble  gleams  of 
encrimsoned  light  made  their  way  through  the  trellised 
panes,  and  served  to  render  suflSciently  distinct  the 
more  prominent  objects  around;  the  eye,  however, 
struggled  in  vain  to  reach  the  remoter  angles  of  the 
chamber,  or  the  recesses  of  the  vaulted  and  fretted  ceil- 
ing. Dark  draperies  hung  upon  the  walls.  The  general 
furniture  was  profuse,  comfortless,  antique,  and  tattered. 
Many  books  and  musical  instruments  lay  scattered 
about,  but  failed  to  give  any  vitality  to  the  scene.  I  felt 
that  I  breathed  an  atmosphere  of  sorrow.  An  air  of 
stern,  deep,  and  irredeemable  gloom  hung  over  and 
pervaded  all. 

Upon  my  entrance,  Usher  arose  from  a  sofa  on  which 


46  SETTING 

he  had  been  lying  at  full  length,  and  greeted  me  with 
a  vivacious  warmth  which  had  much  in  it,  I  at  first 
thought,  of  an  overdone  cordiality  —  of  the  constrained 
effort  of  the  ennuye  man  of  the  world.  A  glance,  however, 
at  his  countenance,  convinced  me  of  his  perfect  sincerity. 
We  sat  down;  and  for  some  moments,  while  he  spoke 
not,  I  gazed  upon  him  w^ith  a  feeling  half  of  pity,  half  of 
awe.  Surely,  man  had  never  before  so  terribly  altered, 
in  so  brief  a  period,  as  had  Roderick  Usher!  It  was  with 
difficulty  that  I  could  bring  myself  to  admit  the  identity 
of  the  wan  being  before  me  with  the  companion  of  my 
early  boyhood.  Yet  the  character  of  his  face  had  been 
at  all  times  remarkable.  A  cadaverousness  of  complex- 
ion; an  eye  large,  liquid,  and  luminous  beyond  compar- 
ison; lips  somewhat  thin  and  very  pallid,  but  of  a  sur- 
passingly beautiful  curve;  a  nose  of  a  delicate  Hebrew 
model,  but  with  a  breadth  of  nostril  unusual  in  similar 
formations;  a  finely  moulded  chin,  speaking,  in  its  want 
of  prominence,  of  a  want  of  moral  energj^ ;  hair  of  a  more 
than  weblike  softness  and  tenuity;  these  features,  with 
an  inordinate  expansion  above  the  regions  of  the  temple, 
made  up  altogether  a  countenance  not  easily  to  be  for- 
gotten. And  now  in  the  mere  exaggeration  of  the  pre- 
vailing character  of  these  features,  and  of  the  expression 
they  were  wont  to  convey,  lay  so  much  of  change  that  I 
doubted  to  whom  I  spoke.  The  now  ghastly  pallor  of 
the  skin,  and  the  now  miraculous  luster  of  the  eye,  above 
all  things  startled  and  even  awed  me.  The  silken  hair, 
too,  had  been  suffered  to  grow  all  unheeded,  and  as,  in 
its  wild  gossamer  texture,  it  floated  rather  than  fell  about 
the  face,  I  could  not,  even  with  effort,  connect  its  Ara- 
besque expression  with  any  idea  of  simple  humanity. 

In  the  manner  of  my  friend  I  was  at  once  struck  with 
an  incoherence  —  an  inconsistency;  and  I  soon  found 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER        47 

this  to  arise  from  a  series  of  feeble  and  futile  struggles 
to  overcome  an  habitual  trepidaney  —  an  excessive 
nervous  agitation.  For  something  of  this  nature  I  had 
indeed,  been  prepared,  no  less  by  his  letter  than  by 
reminiscences  of  certain  boyish  traits,  and  bj^  conclusions 
deduced  from  his  peculiar  physical  conformation  and 
temperament.  His  action  was  alternately  vivacious  and 
sullen.  His  voice  varied  rapidly  from  a  tremendous 
indecision  (when  the  animal  spirits  seemed  utterly  in 
abeyance)  to  that  species  of  energetic  concision  —  that 
abrupt,  weighty,  unhurried,  and  hollow-sounding  enun- 
ciation —  that  leaden,  self-balanced,  and  perfectly  mod- 
ulated guttural  utterance,  which  may  be  observed  in 
the  lost  drunkard,  or  the  irreclaimable  eater  of  opium, 
during  the  periods  of  his  most  intense  excitement. 

It  was  thus  that  he  spoke  of  the  object  of  my  visit,  of 
his  earnest  desire  to  see  me,  and  of  the  solace  he  ex- 
pected me  to  afford  him.  He  entered,  at  some  length, 
into  what  he  conceived  to  be  the  nature  of  his  malady. 
It  was,  he  said,  a  constitutional  and  a  family  evil,  and 
one  for  which  he  despaired  to  find  a  remedy  —  a  mere 
nervous  affection,  he  immediatelj'  added,  which  would 
undoubtedly  soon  pass  off.  It  displayed  itself  in  a  host 
of  unnatural  sensations.  Some  of  these,  as  he  detailed 
them,  interested  and  bewildered  me;  although,  perhaps, 
the  terms,  and  the  general  manner  of  the  narration  had 
their  weight.  He  suffered  much  from  a  morbid  acute- 
ness  of  the  senses;  the  most  insipid  food  was  alone  en- 
durable; he  could  wear  only  garments  of  certain  texture; 
the  odors  of  all  flowers  were  oppressive;  his  eyes  were 
tortured  by  even  a  faint  light;  and  there  were  but  pecu- 
liar sounds,  and  these  from  stringed  instruments,  which 
did  not  inspire  him  with  horror. 

To  an  anomalous  species  of  terror  I  found  him  a 


48  SETTING 

boundcn  slave.  "I  shall  perish,"  said  he,  —  "I  must 
perish  in  this  deplorable  folly.  Thus,  thus,  and  not  other- 
wise, shall  I  be  lost.  I  dread  the  events  of  the  future, 
not  in  themselves,  but  in  their  results.  I  shudder  at  the 
thought  of  any,  even  the  most  trivial,  incident,  which 
may  operate  upon  this  intolerable  agitation  of  soul.  I 
have,  indeed,  no  abhorrence  of  danger,  except  in  its 
absolute  efTect  —  in  terror.  In  this  unnerved  —  in  this 
pitiable  condition  —  I  feel  that  the  period  will  sooner  or 
later  arrive  when  I  must  abandon  life  and  reason  to- 
gether, in  some  struggle  with  the  grim  phantasm.  Fear." 

I  learned,  moreover,  at  intervals,  and  through  broken 
and  equivocal  hints,  another  singular  feature  of  his 
mental  condition.  He  was  enchained  by  certain  supersti- 
tious impressions  in  regard  to  the  dwelling  which  he 
tenanted,  and  whence,  for  many  years,  he  had  never 
ventured  forth  —  in  regard  to  an  influence  whose  sup- 
posititious force  was  conveyed  in  terms  too  shadowy 
here  to  be  restated  —  an  influence  which  some  peculi- 
arities in  the  mere  form  and  substance  of  his  family 
mansion  had,  by  dint  of  long  sufferance,  he  said,  obtained 
over  his  spirit  —  an  effect  which  the  physique  of  the 
gray  walls  and  turrets,  and  of  the  dim  tarn  into  which 
they  all  looked  down,  had  at  length  brought  about  upon 
the  morale  of  his  existence. 

He  admitted,  however,  although  with  hesitation,  that 
much  of  the  peculiar  gloom  which  thus  afflicted  him 
could  be  traced  to  a  more  natural  and  far  more  palpable 
origin  —  to  the  severe  and  long-continued  illness  — 
indeed,  to  the  evidently  approaching  dissolution  —  of  a 
tenderly  beloved  sister  —  his  sole  companion  for  long 
years  —  his  last  and  only  relative  on  earth.  "Her  de- 
cease," he  said,  with  a  bitterness  which  I  can  never  for- 
get, "would  leave  him  (him  the  hopeless  and  the  frail) 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER       49 

the  last  of  the  ancient  race  of  the  Ushers."  While  he 
spoke,  the  Lady  Madeline  (for  so  was  she  called)  passed 
slowly  through  a  remote  portion  of  the  apartment,  and, 
without  having  noticed  my  presence,  disappeared.  I 
regarded  her  with  an  utter  astonishment  not  unminglcd 
with  dread  —  and  yet  I  found  it  impossible  to  account 
for  such  feelings.  A  sensation  of  stupor  oppressed  me,  as 
my  eyes  followed  her  retreating  steps.  When  a  door  at 
length  closed  upon  her,  my  glance  sought  instinctively 
and  eagerly  the  countenance  of  the  brother  —  but  he 
had  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  I  could  only  per- 
ceive that  a  far  more  than  ordinary  wanness  had  over- 
spread the  emaciated  fingers  through  which  trickled 
many  passionate  tears. 

The  disease  of  the  Lady  Madeline  had  long  baffled 
the  skill  of  her  physicians.  A  settled  apathy,  a  gradual 
wasting  away  of  the  person,  and  frequent  although 
transient  affections  of  a  partially  cataleptical  character, 
were  the  unusual  diagnosis.  Hitherto  she  had  steadily 
borne  up  against  the  pressure  of  her  malady, and  had  not 
betaken  herself  finally  to  bed;  but,  on  the  closing  in  of 
the  evening  of  my  arrival  at  the  house,  she  succumbed 
(as  her  brother  told  me  at  night  with  inexpressible  agi- 
tation) to  the  prostrating  power  of  the  destroyer;  and  I 
learned  that  the  glimpse  I  had  obtained  of  her  person 
would  thus  probably  be  the  last  I  should  obtain  —  that 
the  lady,  at  least  while  living,  would  be  seen  by  me  no 
more. 

For  several  days  ensuing,  her  name  was  un mentioned 
by  either  Usher  or  myself;  and  during  this  period  I  was 
busied  in  earnest  endeavors  to  alleviate  the  melancholy 
of  my  friend.  We  painted  and  read  together;  or  I  list- 
ened, as  if  in  a  dream,  to  the  wild  improvisations  of  his 
speaking  guitar.   And  thus,  as  a  closer  and  still  closer 


60  SETTING 

intimacy  admitted  me  more  unreservedly  into  the  re- 
cesses of  his  spirit,  the  more  bitterly  did  I  perceive  the 
futility  of  all  attempt  at  cheering  a  mind  from  which 
darkness,  as  if  an  inherent  positive  quality,  poured  forth 
upon  all  objects  of  the  moral  and  physical  universe,  in 
one  unceasing  radiation  of  gloom. 

I  shall  ever  bear  about  me  a  memory  of  the  many  sol- 
emn hours  I  thus  spent  alone  with  the  master  of  the 
House  of  Usher.  Yet  I  should  fail  in  any  attempt  to  con- 
vey an  idea  of  the  exact  character  of  the  studies,  or  of 
the  occupations,  in  which  he  involved  me,  or  led  me 
the  way.  An  excited  and  highly  distempered  ideality 
threw  a  sulphureous  luster  over  all.  His  long  improvised 
dirges  will  ring  forever  in  my  ears.  Among  other  things, 
I  hold  painfully  in  mind  a  certain  singular  perversion 
and  amplification  of  the  wild  air  of  the  last  waltz  of  Von 
Weber.  From  the  paintings  over  which  his  elaborate 
fancy  brooded,  and  which  grew,  touch  by  touch,  into 
vaguenesses  at  which  I  shuddered  the  more  thrillingly, 
because  I  shuddered  knowing  not  why  —  from  these 
paintings  (vivid  as  their  images  now  are  before  me)  I 
would  in  vain  endeavor  to  educe  more  than  a  small  por- 
tion which  should  lie  within  the  compass  of  merely 
written  words.  By  the  utter  simplicity,  by  the  naked- 
ness of  his  designs,  he  arrested  and  overawed  attention. 
If  ever  mortal  painted  an  idea,  that  mortal  was  Roderick 
Usher.  For  me,  at  least,  —  in  the  circumstances  then 
surrounding  me,  —  there  arose  out  of  the  pure  abstrac- 
tions which  the  hypochondriac  contrived  to  throw  upon 
his  canvas,  an  intensity  of  intolerable  awe,  no  shadow  oJ 
which  felt  I  ever  yet  in  the  contemplation  of  the  cer- 
tainly glowing  yet  too  concrete  reveries  of  Fuseli. 

One  of  the  phantasmagoric  conceptions  of  my  friend, 
partaking  not  so  rigidily  of  the  spirit  of  abstraction, 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER       51 

may  be  shadowed  forth,  although  feebly,  in  words.  A 
small  picture  presented  the  interior  of  an  immensely 
long  and  rectangular  vault  or  tunnel,  with  low  walls, 
smooth,  white,  and  without  interruption  or  device. 
Certain  accessory  points  of  the  design  served  well  to 
convey  the  idea  that  this  excavation  lay  at  an  exceeding 
depth  below  the  surface  of  the  earth.  No  outlet  was 
observed  in  any  portion  of  its  vast  extent,  and  no  torch, 
or  other  artificial  source  of  light,  was  discernible;  yet  a 
flood  of  intense  rays  rolled  throughout,  and  bathed  the 
whole  in  a  ghastly  and  inappropriate  splendor. 

I  have  just  spoken  of  that  morbid  condition  of  the  au- 
ditory nerve  which  rendered  all  music  intolerable  to  the 
sufferer,  with  the  exception  of  certain  effects  of  stringed 
instruments.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  narrow  limits  to  which 
he  thus  confined  himself  upon  the  guitar,  which  gave 
birth,  in  great  measure,  to  the  fantastic  character  of  his 
performances.  But  the  fervid  facility  of  his  impromptus 
could  not  be  so  accounted  for.  They  must  have  been, 
and  were,  in  the  notes,  as  well  as  in  the  words,  of  his  wild 
fantasias  (for  he  not  unfrequently  accompanied  himself 
with  rhymed  verbal  improvisations),  the  result  of  that 
intense  mental  collectedness  and  concentration  to  which 
I  have  previously  alluded  as  observable  only  in  particu- 
lar moments  of  the  highest  artificial  excitement.  The 
words  of  one  of  these  rhapsodies  I  have  easily  remem- 
bered. I  was,  perhaps,  the  more  forcibly  impressed  with 
it,  as  he  gave  it,  because,  in  the  under  or  mystic  current 
of  its  meaning,  I  fancied  that  I  perceived,  and  for  the 
first  time,  a  full  consciousness  on  the  part  of  Usher,  of 
the  tottering  of  his  lofty  reason  upon  her  throne.  The 
verses,  which  were  entitled  "The  Haunted  Palace,"  ran 
very  nearly,  if  not  accurately,  thus:  — 


52  SETTING 


In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys. 

By  good  angels  tenanted. 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace  — 

Radiant  palace  —  reared  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion  — = 

It  stood  there! 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 

II 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden. 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow 
(This  —  all  this  —  was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago) ; 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied. 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 

Ill 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law. 
Round  about  a  throne,  where  sitting 

(Porphyrogene!) 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting. 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

IV 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace  door. 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing. 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty. 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 


But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow. 
Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate. 

(Ah,  let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow 
Shall  dawn  upon  him,  desolate!) 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER       53 

And,  round  about  his  home,  the  glory 

That  l)hished  and  bloomed 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 


VI 

And  travelers  now  within  that  valley. 

Through  the  rcd-litten  windows,  see 
Vast  forms  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody; 
While,  like  a  rapid  ghastly  river. 

Through  the  pale  door, 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  for  ever. 

And  laugh  —  but  smile  no  more. 

I  well  remember  that  suggestions  arising  from  this 
ballad  led  us  into  a  train  of  thought  wherein  there  be- 
came manifest  an  opinion  of  Usher's,  which  I  mention 
not  so  much  on  account  of  its  novelty  (for  other  men 
have  thought  thus),  as  on  account  of  the  pertinacity 
with  which  he  maintained  it.  This  opinion,  in  its  gen- 
eral form,  was  that  of  the  sentience  of  all  vegetable 
things.  But,  in  his  disordered  fancy,  the  idea  had  as- 
sumed a  more  daring  character,  and  trespassed,  under 
certain  conditions,  upon  the  kingdom  of  inorganization. 
I  lack  words  to  express  the  full  extent,  or  the  earnest 
abandon  of  his  persuasion.  The  belief,  however,  was 
connected  (as  I  have  previously  hinted)  with  the  gray 
stones  of  the  home  of  his  forefathers.  The  conditions  of 
the  sentience  had  been  here,  he  imagined,  fulfilled  in  the 
method  of  collocation  of  these  stones  —  in  the  order  of 
their  arrangement,  as  well  as  in  that  of  the  many  fungi 
which  overspread  them,  and  of  the  decayed  trees  which 
stood  around  —  above  all,  in  the  long  undisturbed  en- 
durance of  this  arrangement,  and  in  its  reduplication  in 
the  still  waters  of  the  tarn.  Its  evidence  —  the  evidence 
of  the  sentience  —  was  to  be  seen,  he  said  (and  I  here 


54  SETTING 

started  as  he  spoke),  in  the  gradual  yet  certain  conden- 
sation of  an  atmosphere  of  their  own  about  the  waters 
and  the  walls.  The  result  was  discoverable,  he  added,  in 
that  silent,  yet  importunate  and  terrible  influence  which 
for  centuries  had  moulded  the  destinies  of  his  family, 
and  which  made  him  what  I  now  saw  him  —  what  he 
was.  Such  opinions  need  no  comment,  and  I  will  make 
none. 

Our  books  —  the  books  which,  for  years,  had  formed 
no  small  portion  of  the  mental  existence  of  the  invalid 
—  were,  as  might  be  supposed,  in  strict  keeping  with 
this  character  of  phantasm.  We  pored  together  over 
such  works  as  the  Ververt  et  Chartreuse  of  Gresset;  the 
Belphegor  of  Machiavelli :  the  Heaven  and  Hell  of  Swe- 
denborg;  the  Subterranean  Voyage  of  Nicholas  Klimm, 
byHolberg;  the  Chiromancy  of  Robert  Flud,oi  Jean  DTn- 
dagine,  and  of  De  la  Chambre;  the  Journey  into  the  Blu£ 
Distance  of  Tieck ;  and  the  City  of  the  Sun  of  Campanella. 
One  favorite  volume  was  a  small  octavo  edition  of  the 
Directorium  Inquisitorium,  by  the  Dominican  Eymeric 
de  Gironne;  and  there  were  passages  inPomponius  Mela, 
about  the  old  African  satyrs  and  O^gipans,  over  which 
Usher  would  sit  dreaming  for  hours.  His  chief  delight, 
however,  was  found  in  the  perusal  of  an  exceedingly 
rare  and  curious  book  in  quarto  Gothic  —  the  manual 
of  a  forgotten  church  —  the  Vigilice  Mortuorum  secun- 
dum Chorum  EcclesicB  Maguntinae. 

I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  wild  ritual  of  this, 
work,  and  of  its  probable  influence  upon  the  hypochon- 
driac, when,  one  evening,  having  informed  me  abruptly 
that  the  Lady  Madeline  was  no  more,  he  stated  his  in- 
tention of  preserving  her  corpse  for  a  fortnight  (previ- 
ously to  its  final  interment),  in  one  of  the  numerous 
vaults  within  the  main  walls  of  the  building.  The  worldly 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER       55 

reason,  however,  assigned  for  this  singular  proceeding, 
was  one  which  I  did  not  feel  at  hberty  to  dispute.  The 
brother  had  been  led  to  his  resolution  (so  he  told  me)  by 
consideration  of  the  unusual  character  of  the  malady  of 
the  deceased,  of  certain  obtrusive  and  eager  inquiries  on 
the  part  of  her  medical  men,  and  of  the  remote  and  ex- 
posed situation  of  the  burial-ground  of  the  family.  I  will 
not  deny  that  when  I  called  to  mind  the  sinister  coun- 
tenance of  the  person  whom  I  met  upon  the  staircase,  on 
the  day  of  my  arrival  at  the  house,  I  had  no  desire  to 
oppose  what  I  regarded  as  at  best  but  a  harmless,  and  by 
no  means  an  unnatural,  precaution. 

At  the  request  of  Usher,  I  personally  aided  him  in 
the  arrangements  for  the  temporary  entombment.  The 
body  having  been  encofEned,  we  two  alone  bore  it  to  its 
rest.  The  vault  in  which  we  placed  it  (and  which  had 
been  so  long  unopened  that  our  torches,  half  smothered 
in  its  oppressive  atmosphere,  gave  us  little  opportunity 
for  investigation)  was  small,  damp,  and  entirely  without 
means  of  admission  for  light;  lying,  at  great  depth,  im- 
mediately beneath  that  portion  of  the  building  in  which 
was  my  own  sleeping-apartment.  It  had  been  used,  ap-, 
parently,  in  remote  feudal  times,  for  the  worst  purposes 
of  a  donjon-keep,  and,  in  latter  days,  as  a  place  of  de- 
posit for  powder,  or  some  other  highly  combustible  sub- 
stance, as  a  portion  of  its  floor,  and  the  whole  interior  of 
a  long  archway  through  which  we  reached  it,  were  care- 
fully sheathed  with  copper.  The  door,  of  massive  iron, 
had  been,  also,  similarly  protected.  Its  immense  weight 
caused  an  unusually  sharp  grating  sound,  as  it  moved 
upon  its  hinges. 

Having  d-eposited  our  mournful  burden  upon  trestles 
within  this  region  of  horror,  we  partially  turned  aside 
the  yet  unscrewed  lid  of  the  coffin,  and  looked  upon  the 


56  SETTING 

face  of  the  tenant.  A  striking  similitude  between  the 
brother  and  sister  now  first  arrested  my  attention;  and 
Usher,  divining,  perhaps,  my  thoughts,  murmured  out 
some  few  words  from  which  I  learned  that  the  deceased 
and  himself  had  been  twins,  and  that  sympathies  of  a 
scarcely  intelligible  nature  had  always  existed  between 
them.  Our  glances,  however,  rested  not  long  upon  the 
dead  —  for  we  could  not  regard  her  unawed.  The  dis- 
ease which  had  thus  entombed  the  lady  in  the  maturity 
of  youth,  had  left,  as  usual  in  all  maladies  of  a  strictly 
cataleptical  character,  the  mockery  of  a  faint  blush  upon 
the  bosom  and  the  face,  and  that  suspiciously  lingering 
smile  upon  the  lip  which  is  so  terrible  in  death.  We  re- 
placed and  screwed  down  the  lid,  and,  having  secured  the 
door  of  iron,  made  our  way,  with  toil,  into  the  scarcely 
less  gloomy  apartments  of  the  upper  portion  of  the 
house. 

And  now,  some  days  of  bitter  grief  having  elapsed, 
an  observable  change  came  over  the  features  of  the  men- 
tal disorder  of  my  friend.  His  ordinary  manner  had  van- 
ished. His  ordinary  occupations  were  neglected  or  for- 
' gotten.  He  roamed  from  chamber  to  chamber  with 
hurried,  unequal,  and  objectless  step.  The  pallor  of  his 
countenance  had  assumed,  if  possible,  a  more  ghastly 
hue  —  but  the  luminousness  of  his  eye  had  utterly  gone 
out.  The  more  occasional  huskiness  of  his  tone  was 
heard  no  more;  and  a  tremulous  quaver,  as  if  of  extreme 
terror,  habitually  characterized  his  utterance.  There 
were  times,  indeed,  when  I  thought  his  unceasingly  agi- 
tated mind  was  laboring  with  some  oppressive  secret,  to 
divulge  which  he  struggled  for  the  necessary  courage. 
At  times,  again,  I  was  obliged  to  resolve  all  into  the  mere 
inexplicable  vagaries  of  madness,  for  I  beheld  him  gaz- 
ing upon  vacancy  for  long  hours,  in  an  attitude  of  the 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER       57 

profoundest  attention,  as  if  listening  to  some  imaginary 
sound.  It  was  no  wonder  that  his  condition  terrified  — 
that  it  infected  me.  I  felt  creeping  upon  me,  by  slow  yet 
certain  degrees,  the  wild  influences  of  his  own  fantastic 
yet  impressive  superstitions. 

It  was,  especially,  upon  retiring  to  bed  late  in  the 
night  of  the  seventh  or  eighth  day  after  the  placing  of 
the  Lady  Madeline  within  the  donjon,  that  I  experienced 
the  full  power  of  such  feelings.  Sleep  came  not  near  my 
couch  —  while  the  hours  waned  and  waned  away.  I 
struggled  t<  reason  off  the  nervousness  which  had  domin- 
ion over  me.  I  endeavored  to  believe  that  much  if  not 
all  of  what  I  felt  was  due  to  the  bewildering  influence  of 
the  gloomy  furniture  of  the  room  —  of  the  dark  and 
tattered  draperies,  which,  tortured  into  motion  by  the 
breath  of  a  rising  tempest,  swayed  fitfully  to  and  fro 
upon  the  walls,  and  rustled  uneasily  about  the  decora- 
tions of  the  bed.  But  my  efforts  were  fruitless.  An  irre- 
pressible tremor  gradually  pervaded  my  frame;  and,  at 
length,  there  sat  upon  my  very  heart  an  incubus  of  ut- 
terly causeless  alarm.  Shaking  this  off  with  a  gasp  and  a 
struggle,  I  uplifted  myself  upon  the  pillows,  and,  peering 
earnestly  within  the  intense  darkness  of  the  chamber, 
hearkened  —  I  know  not  why,  except  that  an  instinctive 
spirit  prompted  me  —  to  certain  low  and  indefinite 
sounds  which  came,  through  the  pauses  of  the  storm, 
at  long  intervals,  I  knew  not  whence.  Overpowered  by 
an  intense  sentiment  of  horror,  unaccountable  yet  un- 
endurable, I  threw  on  my  clothes  with  haste  (for  I  felt 
that  I  should  sleep  no  more  during  the  night),  and  en- 
deavored to  arouse  myself  from  the  pitiable  condition 
into  which  I  had  fallen,  by  pacing  rapidly  to  and  fro 
through  the  apartment. 

1  had  taken  but  few  turns  in  this  manner,  when  a  light 


58  SETTING 

step  on  an  adjoining  staircase  arrested  my  attention.  I 
presently  recognized  it  as  that  of  Usher.  In  an  instant 
afterward  he  rapped,  with  a  gentle  touch,  at  my  door, 
and  entered,  bearing  a  lamp.  His  countenance  was,  as 
usual,  cadaverously  wan  —  but,  moreover,  there  was  a  j 
species  of  mad  hilarity  in  his  eyes  —  an  evidently  re-  I 
strained  hysteria  in  his  whole  demeanor.  His  air  ap- 
palled me  —  but  anything  w^as  preferable  to  the  solitude 
which  I  had  so  long  endured,  and  I  even  welcomed  his 
presence  as  a  relief. 

"And  you  have  not  seen  it?"  he  said  abruptly,  after 
having  stared  about  him  for  some  moments  in  silence 
—  "you  have  not,  then,  seen  it.^^  —  but,  stay !  you  shall." 
Thus  speaking,  and  having  carefully  shaded  his  lamp, 
he  hurried  to  one  of  the  casements,  and  threw  it  freely 
open  to  the  storm. 

The  impetuous  fury  of  the  entering  gust  nearly  lifted 
us  from  our  feet.  It  was,  indeed,  a  tempestuous  yet 
sternly  beautiful  night,  and  one  wildly  singular  in  its 
terror  and  its  beauty.  A  whirlwind  had  apparently  col- 
lected its  force  in  our  vicinity;  for  there  were  frequent 
and  violent  alterations  in  the  direction  of  the  wind;  and 
the  exceeding  density  of  the  clouds  (which  hung  so  low  as 
to  press  upon  the  turrets  of  the  house)  did  not  prevent 
our  perceiving  the  lifelike  velocity  with  which  they  flew 
careering  from  all  points  against  each  other,  without 
passing  away  into  the  distance.  I  say  that  even  their 
exceeding  density  did  not  prevent  our  perceiving  this  — 
yet  we  had  no  glimpse  of  the  moon  or  stars  —  nor  was 
there  any  flashing  forth  of  the  lightning.  But  the  under 
surfaces  of  the  huge  masses  of  agitated  vapor,  as  well  as 
all  terrestrial  objects  immediately  around  us,  were  glow- 
ing in  the  unnatural  light  of  a  faintly  luminous  and  dis- 
tinctly visible  gaseous  exhalation  which  hung  about  and. 
enshrouded  the  mansion. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER       59 

"You  must  not  —  you  shall  not  behold  this!"  said  I, 
shudderingly,  to  Usher,  as  I  led  him,  with  a  gentle 
violence,  from  the  window  to  a  seat.  "These  appear- 
ances, which  bewilder  you,  are  merely  electrical  phe- 
nomena not  uncommon  —  or  it  may  be  that  they  have 
their  ghastly  origin  in  the  rank  miasma  of  the  tarn.  Let 
us  close  this  casement  —  the  air  is  chilling  and  danger- 
ous to  your  frame.  Here  is  one  of  your  favorite  romances. 
I  will  read,  and  you  shall  listen  —  and  so  we  will  pass 
away  this  terrible  night  together." 

The  antique  volume  which  I  had  taken  up  was  the 
Mad  Trist  of  Sir  Launcelot  Canning;  but  I  had  called  it 
a  favorite  of  Usher's  more  in  sad  jest  than  in  earnest;  for, 
in  truth,  there  is  little  in  its  uncouth  and  unimaginative 
prolixity  which  could  have  had  interest  for  the  lofty 
and  spiritual  ideality  of  my  friend.  It  was,  however,  the 
only  book  immediately  at  hand;  and  I  indulged  a  vague 
hope  that  the  excitement  which  now  agitated  the  hypo- 
chondriac might  find  relief  (for  the  history  of  mental  dis- 
order is  full  of  similar  anomalies)  even  in  the  extreme- 
ness of  the  folly  which  1  should  read.  Could  I  have 
judged,  indeed,  by  the  wild,  overstrained  air  of  vivacity 
with  which  he  hearkened,  or  apparently  hearkened,  to 
the  words  of  the  tale,  I  might  well  have  congratulated 
myself  upon  the  success  of  my  design. 

I  had  arrived  at  that  well-known  portion  of  the  story 
where  Ethelred,  the  hero  of  the  Trist,  having  sought  in 
vain  for  peaceable  admission  into  the  dwelling  of  the 
hermit,  proceeds  to  make  good  an  entrance  by  force. 
Here,  it  will  be  remembered,  the  words  of  the  narrative 
run  thus:  — 

"And  Ethelred,  who  was  by  nature  of  a  doughty 
heart,  and  who  was  now  mighty  withal,  on  account  ol 
the  powerfuluess  of  the  wine  which  he  had  druukou. 


60  SETTING 

waited  no  longer  to  hold  parley  with  the  hermit,  who,  in 
sooth,  was  of  an  obstinate  and  maliceful  turn,  but,  feel- 
ing the  rain  upon  his  shoulders,  and  fearing  the  rising  of 
the  tempest,  uplifted  his  mace  outright,  and,  with  blows, 
made  quickly  room  in  the  plankings  of  the  door  for  his 
gauntleted  hand;  and  now  pulling  therewith  sturdily,  he 
so  cracked,  and  ripped,  and  tore  all  asunder,  that  the 
noise  of  the  dry  and  hollow-sounding  wood  alarummed 
and  reverberated  throughout  the  forest." 

At  the  termination  of  this  sentence  I  started,  and  for 
a  moment  paused;  for  it  appeared  to  me  (although  I  at 
once  concluded  that  my  excited  fancy  had  deceived  me) 
—  it  appeared  to  me  that,  from  some  very  remote  por- 
tion of  the  mansion,  there  came,  indistinctly,  to  ray  ears, 
what  might  have  been,  in  its  exact  similarity  of  charac- 
ter, the  echo  (but  a  stifled  and  dull  one  certainly)  of  the 
very  cracking  and  ripping  sound  which  Sir  Launcelot 
had  so  particularly  described.  It  was,  beyond  doubt, 
the  coincidence  alone  which  had  arrested  my  attention; 
for,  amid  the  rattling  of  the  sashes  of  the  casements,  and 
the  ordinary  commingled  noises  of  the  still  increasing 
storm,  the  sound,  in  itself,  had  nothing,  surely,  which 
should  have  interested  or  disturbed  me.  I  continued  the 
story :  — 

"But  the  good  champion  Ethelred,  now  entering 
within  the  door,  was  sore  enraged  and  amazed  to  per- 
ceive no  signal  of  the  maliceful  hermit;  but,  in  the  stead 
thereof,  a  dragon  of  a  scaly  and  prodigious  demeanour, 
and  of  a  fiery  tongue,  which  sate  in  guard  before  a  pal- 
ace of  gold,  with  a  floor  of  silver;  and  upon  the  wall 
there  hung  a  shield  of  shining  brass  with  this  legend 
enwritten:  — 

'Who  entfTclh  herein,  a  conqueror  hath  bin; 
Who  slayeUi  the  dragon,  the  shield  he  shall  win.' 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER       61 

And  Ethelred  uplifted  his  mace,  and  struck  upon  the 
head  of  the  dragon,  which  fell  before  him,  and  gave  up 
his  pesty  breath,  with  a  shriek  so  horrid  and  harsh,  and 
withal  so  piercing,  that  Ethelred  had  fain  to  close  his 
ears  with  his  hands  against  the  dreadful  noise  of  it,  the 
like  whereof  was  never  before  heard." 

Here  again  I  paused  abruptly,  and  now  with  a  feeling 
of  wild  amazement  —  for  there  could  be  no  doubt  what- 
ever that,  in  this  instance,  I  did  actually  hear  (although 
from  what  direction  it  proceeded  I  found  it  impossible 
to  say)  a  low  and  apparently  distant,  but  harsh,  pro- 
tracted, and  most  unusual  screaming  or  grating  sound 
—  the  exact  counterpart  of  what  my.  fancy  had  already 
conjured  up  for  the  dragon's  unnatural  shriek  as  de- 
scribed by  the  romancer. 

Oppressed  as  I  certainly  was,  upon  the  occurrence  of 
this  second  and  most  extraordinary  coincidence,  by  a 
thousand  conflicting  sensations,  in  which  wonder  and 
extreme  terror  were  predominant,  I  still  retained  suffi- 
cient presence  of  mind  to  avoid  exciting,  by  any  obser- 
vation, the  sensitive  nervousness  of  my  companion. 
I  was  by  no  means  certain  that  he  had  noticed  the  sound 
in  question;  although,  assuredly,  a  strange  alteration 
had,  during  the  last  few  minutes,  taken  place  in  his 
demeanor.  From  a  position  fronting  my  own,  he  had 
gradually  brought  round  his  chair,  so  as  to  sit  with  his 
face  to  the  door  of  the  chamber;  and  thus  I  could  but 
partially  perceive  his  features,  although  I  saw  that  his 
lips  trembled  as  if  he  were  murmuring  inaudibly.  His 
head  had  dropped  upon  his  breast  —  yet  I  knew  that  he 
was  not  asleep,  from  the  wide  and  rigid  opening  of  the 
eye  as  I  caught  a  glance  of  it  in  profile.  The  motion  of 
his  body,  too,  was  at  variance  with  this  idea  —  for  he 
rocked  from  side  to  side  with  a  gentle  yet  constant  and 


62  SETTING 

uniform  sway.  HaviDg  rapidly  taken  notice  of  all  this,  I 
resumed  the  narrative  of  Sir  Launcelot,  which  thus  pro- 
ceeded: — 

"And  now,  the  champion,  having  escaped  from  the 
terrible  fury  of  the  dragon,  bethinking  himself  of  the 
brazen  shield,  and  of  the  breaking  up  of  the  enchantment 
which  was  upon  it,  removed  the  carcass  from  out  of  the 
way  before  him,  and  approached  valorously  over  the 
silver  pavement  of  the  castle  to  where  the  shield  was 
upon  the  wall;  which  in  sooth  tarried  not  for  his  full 
coming,  but  fell  down  at  his  feet  upon  the  silver,  floor, 
with  a  mighty  great  and  terrible  ringing  sound." 

No  sooner  had  these  syllables  passed  my  lips,  than  — 
as  if  a  shield  of  brass  had,  indeed,  at  the  moment,  fallen 
heavily  upon  a  floor  of  silver  —  I  became  aware  of  a  dis- 
tinct, hollow,  metallic,  and  clangorous,  yet  apparently 
muffled,  reverberation.  Completely  unnerved,  I  leaped 
to  my  feet;  but  the  measured,  rocking  movement  of 
Usher  was  undisturbed.  I  rushed  to  the  chair  in  which 
he  sat.  His  eyes  were  bent  fixedly  before  him,  and 
throughout  his  whole  countenance  there  reigned  a  stony 
rigidity.  But,  as  I  placed  my  hand  upon  his  shoulder, 
there  came  a  strong  shudder  over  his  whole  person;  a 
sickly  smile  quivered  on  his  lips;  and  I  saw  that  he  spoke 
in  a  low,  hurried,  and  gibbering  murmur,  as  if  unconscious 
of  my  presence.  Bending  closely  over  him,  I  at  length 
drank  in  the  hideous  import  of  his  words. 

"  Not  hear  it? — yes,  I  hear  it,  and  have  heard  it.  Long 
—  long  — long  —  many  minutes,  many  hours,  many  days, 
have  I  heard  it  —  yet  I  dared  not  —  oh,  pity  me,  mis- 
erable wretch  that  I  am !  —  I  dared  not  —  I  dared  not 
speak !  We  have  put  her  living  in  the  tomb !  Said  I  not 
that  my  senses  were  acute.''  I  now  tell  you  that  I  heard 
her  first  feeble  movements  in  the  hollow  coffin.   I  heard 


THE  FALL  OF  TIIE  HOUSE  OF  USHER       63 

them  —  many,  many  days  ago  —  yet  I  dared  not  —  / 
dared  not  speak  !  And  now,  —  to-night  —  Ethelred  — 
ha!  ha!  —  the  breaking  of  the  hermit's  door,  and  the 
death-cry  of  the  dragon,  and  the  clangor  of  the  shield !  — 
say,  rather,  the  rending  of  her  coffin,  and  the  grating  of 
the  iron  hinges  of  her  prison,  and  her  struggles  within 
the  coppered  archway  of  the  vault !  Oh,  whither  shall  I 
f]y?  Will  she  not  be  here  anon?  Is  she  not  hurrying  to 
upbraid  me  for  my  haste?  Have  I  not  heard  her  footstep 
on  the  stair?  Do  I  not  distinguish  that  heavy  and 
horrible  beating  of  her  heart?  Madman!"  —  here  he 
sprang  furiously  to  his  feet,  and  shrieked  out  his  sylla- 
bles, as  if  in  the  effort  he  were  giving  up  his  soul  — 
"Madman  !  I  tell  you  thai  she  now  stands  without  the 
dom-r 

As  if  in  the  superhuman  energy  of  his  utterance  there 
had  been  found  the  potency  of  a  spell  —  the  huge  an- 
tique panels  to  w^hich  the  speaker  pointed  threw  slowly 
back,  upon  the  instant,  their  ponderous  and  ebony  jaws. 
It  was  the  work  of  the  rushing  gust  —  but  then  without 
those  doors  there  did  stand  the  lofty  and  enshrouded 
figure  of  the  Lady  Madeline  of  Usher,  There  was  blood 
upon  her  white  robes,  and  the  evidence  of  some  bitter 
struggle  upon  every  portion  of  her  emaciated  frame. 
For  a  moment  she  remained  trembling  and  reeling  to  and 
fro  upon  the  threshold  —  then,  with  a  low,  moaning 
cry,  fell  heavily  inward  upon  the  person  of  her  brother, 
and  in  her  violent  and  now  final  death-agonies,  bore  him 
to  the  floor  a  corpse,  and  a  victim  to  the  terrors  he  had 
anticipated. 

From  that  chamber,  and  from  that  mansion,  I  fled 
aghast.  The  storm  was  still  abroad  in  all  its  wrath  as 
I  found  myself  crossing  the  old  causeway.  Suddenly 
there  shot  along  the  path  a  wild  light,  and  I  turned  to 


64  SETTING 

see  whence  a  gleam  so  unusual  could  have  issued;  for 
the  vast  house  and  its  shadows  were  alone  behind  me. 
The  radiance  was  that  of  the  full,  setting,  and  blood-red 
moon,  which  now  shone  vividly  through  that  once  barely- 
discernible  fissure,  of  which  I  have  before  spoken  as 
extending  from  the  roof  of  the  building,  in  a  zigzag 
direction,  to  the  base.  While  I  gazed,  this  fissure  rapidly- 
widened  —  there  came  a  fierce  breath  of  the  whirlwind 
—  the  entire  orb  of  the  satellite  burst  at  once  upon  my 
sight  —  my  brain  reeled  as  I  saw  the  mighty  walls  rush- 
ing asunder  —  there  was  a  long,  tumultuous  shouting 
sound  like  a  voice  of  a  thousand  waters  —  and  the  deep 
and  dank  tarn  at  my  feet  closed  sullenly  and  silently 
over  the  fragments  of  the  "House  of  Usher." 


CHARACTER 


FRANCISCO   PIZARRO^ 

BY  WILLIAM  H.  PRESCOTT 

Tins  selection  is  a  good  example  of  various  elements  that 
enter  into  characterization.  In  the  delineation  of  Pizarro  we 
have  the  external  portraiture  of  the  man  —  his  dress,  stature, 
and  other  similar  personal  details.  We  also  have  a  direct  ex- 
position of  the  traits  of  his  character  —  his  avarice  and  am- 
bition, his  perfidy  and  personal  courage.  The  exposition  of 
these  various  qualities  is  attended  by  the  citation  of  many 
illustrative  examples,  presenting  data  from  which  the  reader 
may  more  effectively  draw  his  conclusions.  Pizarro's  invari- 
able custom  of  saying  "  No"  to  every  applicant  for  favor,  his 
simplicity  of  dress  on  public  occasions,  his  perfidy  in  the  case 
of  Atahuallpa  —  these  and  other  concrete  cases  alluded  to 
in  the  passage  and  developed  at  greater  length  elsewhere  in 
the  history,  constitute  indirect  characterization,  although  the 
selection  in  general  makes  use  of  the  direct  method. 

One  of  the  most  noteworthy  qualities  of  the  selection  is  the 
subjective  attitude  of  the  author,  whose  own  individuality  is 
apparent  throughout.  For  instance,  in  the  paragraph  concern- 
ing the  perfidy  of  Pizarro,  we  read:  "Yet  nothing  is  more 
opposed  to  sound  policy.  The  act  of  perfidy  fully  established 
becomes  the  ruin  of  its  author.  The  man  who  relinquishes  con- 
fidence in  his  good  faith  gives  up  the  best  basis  for  future 
operations.  Who  will  knowingly  build  on  a  quicksand.'" 
This  is,  of  course,  a  mere  intercalation  of  the  narrator's  atti- 
tude to  life  and  to  the  conduct  of  his  hero.  The  same  tendency 
is  found  at  the  close  in  the  words:  "Who  does  not  shudder  at 
the  thought  of  what  his  own  fate  might  have  been,  trained  in 
such  a  school?  The  amount  of  crime  does  not  necessarily  show 
the  criminality  of  the  agent.  History,  indeed,  is  concerned 
with  the  former,  that  it  may  be  recorded  as  a  warning  to 

^  From  chapter  v,  book  iv,  of  The  Conquest  of  Peru.  By  pertnis' 
sion  of  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company. 


68  CHARACTER 

mankind;  but  it  is  He  alone  who  knoweth  the  heart,  the 
strength  of  the  temptation,  and  the  means  of  resisting  it, 
that  can  determine  the  measure  of  the  guilt."  This  subjec- 
tive attitude  marks  a  distinct  difference  between  the  method 
of  earlier  historians  and  those  of  the  later  so-called  "scientific" 
school,  who  so  polarize  their  facts  as  to  make  them  wholly 
impersonal:  their  function  is  to  search  out  the  material  and 
present  it,  not  to  moralize  about  it  and  color  it  with  the 
various  shades  of  personal  opinion.  The  same  general  dis- 
tinction appears  in  fiction.  Maupassant,  for  instance,  as  may- 
be seen  in  Happiness,  sets  forth  his  characters  without  personal 
comment:  his  approval  or  disapproval  forms  no  part  of  the 
exposition.  Thackeray,  on  the  other  hand,  buttonholes  the 
reader,  genially  discussing  with  him  the  various  personages, 
and  gives  to  the  whole  characterization  an  atmosphere  of  fa- 
miliar intercourse  between  creator  and  reader. 

PiZARRO  was,  probably,  not  far  from  sixty-five  years 
of  age  at  the  time  of  his  death ;  though  this,  it  must  be 
added,  is  but  loose  conjecture,  since  there  exists  no  au- 
thentic record  of  the  date  of  his  birth.  He  was  never 
married;  but  by  an  Indian  princess  of  the  Inca  blood, 
daughter  of  the  Atahuallpa  and  granddaughter  of  the 
great  Huayna  Capac,  he  had  two  children,  a  son  and  a 
daughter.  Both  survived  him ;  but  the  son  did  not  live 
to  manhood.  Their  mother,  after  Pizarro's  death,  wed- 
ded a  Spanish  cavalier,  named  Ampuero,  and  removed 
with  him  to  Spain.  Her  daughter  Francisca  accom- 
panied her,  and  was  there  subsequently  married  to  her 
uncle  Hernando  Pizarro,  then  a  prisoner  in  the  Mota  del 
Medina,  Neither  the  title  nor  estates  of  the  Marquess 
Francisco  descended  to  his  illegitimate  offspring.  But 
in  the  third  generation,  in  the  reign  of  Philip  IV,  the 
title  was  revived  in  favor  of  Don  Juan  Hernando  Pi- 
zarro, who,  out  of  gratitude  for  the  services  of  his  ances- 
tor, was  created  Marquess  of  the  Conquest  (Marques 
de  la  Conquista),  with  a  liberal  pension  from  Govern- 


FRANCISCO  PIZARRO  69 

ment.  His  descendants  bearing  the  same  title  of  nobility 
are  still  to  be  found,  it  is  said,  at  Truxillo,  in  the  ancient 
province  of  Estremadura,  the  original  birthplace  of  the 
Pizarros. 

Pizarro's  person  has  been  already  described.  He  was 
tall  in  stature,  well-proportioned,  and  with  a  counte- 
nance not  unpleasing.  Bred  in  camps,  with  nothing  of 
the  polish  of  a  court,  he  had  a  soldier-like  bearing,  and 
the  air  of  one  accustomed  to  command.  But  though  not 
polished,  there  was  no  embarrassment  or  rusticity  in 
his  address,  which,  where  it  served  his  purpose,  could  be 
plausible  and  even  insinuating.  The  proof  of  it  is  the 
favorable  impression  made  by  him,  on  presenting  him- 
self, after  his  second  expedition  —  stranger  as  he  was  to 
all  its  forms  and  usages  —  at  the  punctilious  court  of 
Castile. 

Unlike  many  of  his  countrymen,  he  had  no  passion 
for  ostentatious  dress,  which  he  regarded  as  an  imcum- 
brance.  The  costume  which  he  most  affected  on  public 
occasions  was  a  black  coat,  with  a  white  hat,  and  shoes 
of  the  same  color;  the  last,  it  is  said,  being  in  imitation 
of  the  Great  Captain,  whose  character  he  had  early 
learned  to  admire  in  Italy,  but  to  which  his  own,  cer- 
tainly, bore  very  faint  resemblance. 

He  was  temperate  in  eating,  drank  sparingly,  and 
usually  rose  an  hour  before  dawn.  He  was  punctual  in 
attendance  to  business,  and  shrank  from  no  toil.  He 
had,  indeed,  great  powers  of  ])atient  endurance.  Like 
most  of  his  nation,  he  was  fond  of  play,  and  cared  little 
for  the  quality  of  those  with  whom  he  played;  though, 
when  his  antagonist  could  not  afford  to  lose,  he  would 
allow  himself,  it  is  said,  to  be  the  loser,  a  mode  of  con- 
ferring an  obligation  much  commended  by  a  Castilian 
writer  for  its  delicacy. 


70  CHARACTER 

Though  avaricious,  it  was  in  order  to  spend,  and  not 
to  hoard.  His  ample  treasures,  more  ample  than  those, 
probably,  that  ever  before  fell  to  the  lot  of  an  adven- 
turer, were  mostly  dissipated  in  his  enterprises,  his 
architectural  works  and  schemes  of  public  improvement, 
which,  in  a  country  where  gold  and  silver  might  be  said 
to  have  lost  their  value  from  their  abundance,  absorbed 
an  incredible  amount  of  money.  While  he  regarded 
the  whole  country,  in  a  manner,  as  his  own,  and  dis- 
tributed it  freely  among  his  captains,  it  is  certain  that 
the  princely  grant  of  a  territory  with  twenty  thousand 
vassals,  made  to  him  by  the  Crown,  was  never  carried 
into  effect;  nor  did  his  heirs  ever  reap  the  benefit  of  it. 

To  a  man  possessed  of  the  active  energies  of  Pizarro, 
sloth  was  the  greatest  evil.  The  excitement  of  play  was 
in  a  manner  necessary  to  a  spirit  accustomed  to  the 
habitual  stimulants  of  war  and  adventure.  His  unedu- 
cated mind  had  no  relish  for  more  refined,  intellectual 
recreation.  The  deserted  foundling  had  neither  been 
taught  to  read  nor  write.  This  has  been  disputed  by 
some,  but  it  is  attested  by  unexceptionable  authorities. 
Mentesinos  says,  indeed,  that  Pizarro,  on  his  first 
voyage,  tried  to  learn  to  read;  but  the  impatience  of  his 
temper  prevented  it,  and  he  contented  himself  with 
learning  to  sign  his  name.  But  Montesinos  was  not  a 
contemporary  historian.  Pedro  Pizarro,  his  companion 
in  arms,  expressly  tells  us  he  could  neither  read  nor 
write;  and  Zarate,  another  contemporary,  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  Conquerors,  confirms  this  statement, 
and  adds,  that  Pizarro  could  not  so  much  as  sign  his 
name.  This  was  done  by  his  secretary  —  Picado,  in  his 
later  years  —  while  the  governor  merely  made  the  cus- 
tomary rubrica  or  flourish  at  the  sides  of  his  name.  This 
is  the  case  with  the  instruments  I  have  examined,  in 


FRANCISCO  PIZARRO  71 

which  his  signature,  written  probably  by  his  secretary, 
or  his  title  of  Marques,  in  later  life  substituted  for  his 
name,  is  garnished  with  a  flourish  at  the  ends,  executed 
in  as  bungling  a  manner  as  if  done  by  the  hand  of  a 
ploughman.  Yet  we  must  not  estimate  this  deficiency 
as  we  should  in  this  period  of  general  illumination  — ■ 
general,  at  least,  in  our  own  fortunate  country.  Read- 
ing and  writing,  so  universal  now,  in  the  beginning  of 
the  sixteenth  century  might  be  regarded  in  the  light 
of  accomplishments;  and  all  who  have  occasion  to 
consult  the  autograph  memorials  of  that  time  will  find 
the  execution  of  them,  even  by  persons  of  the  highest 
rank,  too  often  such  as  would  do  little  credit  to  a  school- 
boy of  the  present  day. 

Though  bold  in  action  and  not  easily  turned  from  his 
purpose,  Pizarro  was  slow  in  arriving  at  a  decision.  This 
gave  him  an  appearance  of  irresolution  foreign  to  his 
character.  Perhaps  the  consciousness  of  this  led  him  to 
adopt  the  custom  of  saying  "No,"  at  first,  to  appli- 
cants for  favor;  and  afterwards,  at  leisure,  to  revise  his 
judgment,  and  grant  what  seemed  to  him  expedient.  He 
took  the  opposite  course  from  his  comrade  Almagro, 
who,  it  was  observed,  generally  said  "Yes,"  but  too 
often  failed  to  keep  his  promise.  This  was  characteristic 
of  the  careless  and  easy  nature  of  the  latter,  governed 
by  impulse  rather  than  principle. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  speak  of  the  courage  of  a 
man  pledged  to  such  a  career  as  that  of  Pizarro.  Cour- 
age, indeed,  was  a  cheap  quality  among  the  Spanish 
adventurers,  for  danger  was  their  element.  But  he  i)os- 
sessed  something  higher  than  mere  animal  coiu'age,  in 
that  constancy  of  purpose  which  Mas  rooted  too  deeply 
in  his  nature  to  be  shaken  by  the  wildest  storms  of 
fortune.    It  was  this  inflexible  constancy  which  formed 


72  CHARACTER 

the  key  to  his  character,  and  constituted  the  secret  of 
his  success.  A  remarkable  evidence  of  it  was  given  in 
his  first  expedition  among  the  mangroves  and  dreary 
marshes  of  Choco.  He  saw  his  followers  pining  around 
him  under  the  blighting  malaria,  wasting  before  an 
invisible  enemy,  and  unable  to  strike  a  stroke  in  their 
own  defense.  Yet  his  spirit  did  not  yield,  nor  did  he 
falter  in  his  enterprise. 

There  is  something  oppressive  to  the  imagination  in 
this  war  against  nature.  In  the  struggle  of  man  against 
man,  the  spirits  are  raised  by  a  contest  conducted  on 
equal  terms;  but  in  a  war  with  the  elements,  we  feel 
that,  however  bravely  we  may  contend,  we  can  have  no 
power  to  control.  Nor  are  we  cheered  on  by  the  prospect 
of  glory  in  such  a  contest;  for,  in  the  capricious  estimate 
of  human  glory,  the  silent  endurance  of  privations,  how- 
ever painful,  is  little,  in  comparison  with  the  ostenta- 
tious trophies  of  victory.  The  laurel  of  the  hero  — 
alas  for  humanity  that  it  should  be  so!  —  grows  best 
on  the  battle-field. 

This  inflexible  spirit  of  Pizarro  was  shown  still  more 
strongly,  when,  in  the  little  island  of  Gallo,  he  drew  the 
line  on  the  sand,  which  was  to  separate  him  and  his 
handful  of  followers  from  their  country  and  from  civi- 
lized man.  He  trusted  that  his  own  constancy  would 
give  strength  to  the  feeble,  and  rally  brave  hearts  around 
him  for  the  prosecution  of  his  enterprise.  He  looked 
with  confidence  to  the  future,  and  he  did  not  miscalcu- 
late. This  was  heroic,  and  wanted  only  a  nobler  motive 
for  its  object  to  constitute  the  true  moral  sublime. 

Yet  the  same  feature  in  his  character  was  displayed 
in  a  manner  scarcely  less  remarkable,  when,  landing  on 
the  coast,  and  ascertaining  the  real  strength  and  civiliza- 
tion of  the  Incas,  he  persisted  in  marching  into  the  in- 


FRANCISCO  PIZARRO  73 

terior  at  the  head  of  a  force  of  less  than  two  hundred 
men.  In  this  he  undoubtedly  proposed  to  himself  the 
example  of  Cortes,  so  contagious  to  the  adventurous 
si)irits  of  that  day,  and  especially  to  Pizarro,  engaged, 
as  he  was,  in  a  similar  enterprise.  Yet  the  hazard  as- 
sumed by  Pizarro  was  far  greater  than  that  of  the  Con- 
queror of  Mexico,  whose  force  was  nearly  three  times 
as  large,  while  the  terrors  of  the  Inca  name  —  however 
justified  by  the  result  —  were  as  widely  spread  as  those 
of  the  Aztecs. 

It  was  doubtless  in  imitation  of  the  same  capitivating 
model  that  Pizarro  planned  the  seizure  of  Atahuallpa. 
But  the  situations  of  the  two  Spanish  captains  were  as 
dissimilar  as  the  manner  in  which  their  acts  of  violence 
were  conducted.  The  wanton  massacre  of  the  Peruvians 
resembled  that  perpetrated  by  Alvarado  in  Mexico,  and 
might  have  been  attended  with  consequences  as  disas- 
trous, if  the  Peruvian  character  had  been  as  fierce  as 
that  of  the  Aztecs.  But  the  blow  which  roused  the  latter 
to  madness  broke  the  tamer  spirits  of  the  Peruvians.  It 
was  a  bold  stroke  which  left  so  much  to  chance  that  it 
scarcely  merits  the  name  of  policy. 

When  Pizarro  landed  in  the  country,  he  found  it  dis- 
tracted by  a  contest  for  the  crown.  It  would  seem  to 
have  been  for  his  interest  to  play  off  one  party  against 
the  other,  throwing  his  own  weight  into  the  scale  that 
suited  him.  Instead  of  this,  he  resorted  to  an  act  of 
audacious  violence  which  crushed  them  both  at  a  blow. 
Ilis  subsequent  career  afforded  no  scope  for  the  pro- 
found policy  displayed  by  Cortes,  when  he  gathered 
conflicting  nations  under  his  banner,  and  directed  them 
against  a  common  foe.  Still  less  did  he  have  the  op- 
portunity of  displaying  the  tactics  and  admirable  strat- 
egy of  his  rival.    Cortes  conducted  his  military  oi)cra- 


74  CHARACTER 

tions  on  the  scientific  principles  of  a  great  captain  at 
the  head  of  a  powerful  host.  Pizarro  appears  only  as 
an  adventurer,  a  fortunate  knight-errant.  By  one  bold 
stroke  he  broke  the  spell  which  had  so  long  held  the  land 
under  the  dominion  of  the  Incas.  The  spell  was  broken, 
and  the  airy  fabric  of  their  empire,  built  on  the  super- 
stition of  ages,  vanished  at  a  touch.  This  was  good 
fortune,  rather  than  the  result  of  policy. 

Pizarro  was  eminently  perfidious.  Yet  nothing  is  more 
opposed  to  sound  policy.  One  act  of  perfidy  fully  estab- 
lished becomes  the  ruin  of  its  author.  The  man  who  re- 
linquishes confidence  in  his  good  faith  gives  up  the  best 
basis  for  future  operations.  Who  will  knowingly  build 
on  a  quicksand?  By  his  perfidious  treatment  of  Almagro, 
Pizarro  alienated  the  minds  of  the  Spaniards.  By  his 
perfidious  treatment  of  Atahuallpa,  and  subsequently 
of  the  Inca  INIanco,  he  disgusted  the  Peruvians.  The 
name  of  Pizarro  became  a  by-word  for  perfidy.  Alma- 
gro took  his  revenge  in  a  civil  war;  Manco  in  an  insur- 
rection which  nearly  cost  Pizarro  his  dominion.  The 
civil  war  terminated  in  a  conspiracy  which  cost  him  his 
life.  Such  were  the  fruits  of  his  policy.  Pizarro  may  be 
regarded  as  a  cunning  man;  but  not,  as  he  has  been 
often  eulogized  by  his  countrymen,  as  a  politic  one. 

When  Pizarro  obtained  possession  of  Cuzco,  he  found 
a  country  well  advanced  in  the  arts  of  civilization:  in- 
stitutions under  which  the  people  lived  in  tranquillity 
and  personal  safety;  the  mountains  and  the  uplands 
whitened  with  flocks;  the  valleys  teeming  with  the  fruits 
of  a  scientific  husbandry;  the  granaries  and  warehouses 
filled  to  overflowing;  the  whole  land  rejoicing  in  its 
abundance;  and  the  character  of  the  nation,  softened 
under  the  influence  of  the  mildest  and  most  innocent 
form  of  superstition,  well  prepared  for  the  reception 


FRANCISCO  PIZARRO  75 

of  a  higher  and  a  Christian  civilization.  But,  far  from 
introducing  this,  Pizarro  delivered  up  the  conquered 
races  to  his  brutal  soldiery;  the  sacred  cloisters  were 
abandoned  to  their  lust;  the  towns  and  villages  were 
given  up  to  pillage;  the  wretched  natives  were  parceled 
out  like  slaves,  to  toU  for  their  conquerors  in  the  mines; 
the  flocks  were  scattered,  and  wantonly  destroyed;  the 
granaries  were  dissipated ;  the  beautiful  contrivances  for 
the  more  perfect  culture  of  the  soil  were  suffered  to  fall 
into  decay;  the  paradise  was  converted  into  a  desert. 
Instead  of  profiting  by  the  ancient  forms  of  civilization, 
Pizarro  preferred  to  efface  every  vestige  of  them  from  the 
land,  and  on  their  ruin  to  erect  the  institutions  of  his 
own  country.  Yet  these  institutions  did  little  for  the 
poor  Indian,  held  in  iron  bondage.  It  was  little  to  him 
that  the  shores  of  the  Pacific  were  studded  with  rising 
communities  and  cities,  the  marts  of  a  flourishing  com- 
merce. He  had  no  share  in  the  goodly  heritage.  He  was 
an  alien  in  the  land  of  his  fathers. 

The  religion  of  the  Peruvian,  which  directed  him  to 
the  worship  of  that  glorious  luminary  which  is  the  best 
representative  of  the  might  and  beneficence  of  the 
Creator,  is  perhaps  the  purest  form  of  superstition  that 
has  existed  among  men.  Yet  it  was  much,  that,  under 
the  new  order  of  things,  and  through  the  benevolent  zeal 
of  the  missionaries,  some  glimmerings  of  a  nobler  faith 
were  permitted  to  dawn  on  his  darkened  soul.  Pizarro, 
himself,  cannot  be  charged  with  manifesting  any  over- 
weening solicitude  for  the  i)ropagation  of  the  Faith.  He 
was  no  bigot,  like  Cortes.  Bigotry  is  the  i)erversion  of 
the  religious  principle;  but  the  i)rinciple  itself  was  want- 
ing in  Pizarro.  The  conversion  of  the  heathen  was  a  ])re- 
dominant  motive  with  Cortes  in  his  exi)edition.  It  was 
not  a  vain  boast.  lie  would  have  sacrificed  his  life  for  it 


76  CHARACTER 

at  any  time;  and  more  than  once,  by  his  indiscreet  zeal, 
he  actually  did  place  his  life  and  the  success  of  his  enter- 
prise in  jeopardy.  It  was  his  great  purpose  to  purify  the 
land  from  the  brutish  abominations  of  the  Aztecs,  by  sub- 
stituting the  religion  of  Jesus.  This  gave  to  his  expedition 
the  character  of  a  crusade.  It  furnished  the  best  apology 
of  the  Conquest,  and  does  more  than  all  other  con- 
siderations towards  enlisting  our  sympathies  on  the  side 
of  the  Conquerors. 

But  Pizarro's  ruling  motives,  so  far  as  they  can  be 
scanned  by  human  judgment,  were  avarice  and  ambi- 
tion. The  good  missionaries,  indeed,  followed  in  his 
train  to  scatter  the  seeds  of  spiritual  truth,  and  the  Span- 
ish Government,  as  usual,  directed  its  beneficent  legis- 
lation to  the  conversion  of  the  natives.  But  the  moving 
power  with  Pizarro  and  his  followers  was  the  lust  of  gold. 
This  was  the  real  stimulus  to  their  toil,  the  price  of  per- 
fidy, the  true  guerdon  of  their  victories.  This  gave  a 
base  and  mercenary  character  to  their  enterprise;  and, 
when  we  contrast  the  ferocious  cupidity  of  the  Conquer- 
ors with  the  mild  and  inoffensive  manners  of  the  con- 
quered, our  sympathies,  the  sympathies  even  of  the 
Si)aniard,  are  necessarily  throwTi  into  the  scale  of  the 
Indian. 

But  as  no  picture  is  without  its  lights,  we  must  not, 
in  justice  to  Pizarro,  dwell  exclusively  on  the  darker 
features  of  his  portrait.  There  was  no  one  of  her  sons 
to  whom  Spain  was  under  larger  obligations  for  extent 
of  emjjire;  for  his  hand  won  for  her  the  richest  of  the 
Indian  jewels  that  once  sparkled  in  her  imperial  diadem. 
When  we  contemplate  the  perils  he  braved,  the  suffer- 
ings he  patiently  endured,  the  incredible  obstacles  he 
overcame,  the  magnificent  results  he  effected  with  his 
single  arm,  as  it  were,  unaided  by  the  Government  — 


FRANCISCO  PIZARRO  77 

though  neither  a  good,  nor  a  great  man  in  the  liighest 
sense  of  that  term  —  it  is  impossible  not  to  regard  him 
as  a  very  extraordinary  one. 

Nor  can  we  fairly  omit  to  notice  in  extenuation  of  his 
errors,  the  circumstances  of  liis  early  life;  for,  like  Al- 
magro,  he  was  the  son  of  sin  and  sorrow,  early  cast  upon 
the  world  to  seek  his  fortunes  as  he  might.  In  his  young 
and  tender  age  he  was  to  take  the  impression  of  those 
into  whose  society  he  was  thrown.  And  when  was  it  the 
lot  of  the  needy  outcast  to  fall  into  that  of  the  wise  and 
the  virtuous?  His  lot  was  cast  among  the  licentious 
inmates  of  a  camp,  the  school  of  rapine,  whose  only  law 
was  the  sword,  and  who  looked  on  the  wTetched  Indian 
and  his  heritage  as  their  rightful  spoil. 

Who  does  not  shudder  at  the  thought  of  what  his  own 
fate  might  have  been,  trained  in  such  a  school.'*  The 
amount  of  crime  does  not  necessarily  show  the  criminal- 
ity of  the  agent.  History,  indeed,  is  concerned  with  the 
former,  that  it  may  be  recorded  as  a  warning  to  man- 
kind; but  it  is  He  alone  who  knoweth  the  heart,  the 
strength  of  the  temptation,  and  the  means  of  resisting 
it,  that  can  determine  the  measure  of  the  guilt. 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE  ^ 

BY  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

Structurally  this  story  is  of  interest  for  two  principal 
reasons:  as  illustrating  character  moulded  by  background,  and 
as  a  "key  narrative,"  or  allegory.  The  Great  Stone  Face  was 
an  important  element  in  the  formation  of  Ernest's  person- 
ality; the  constant  contemplation  of  the  noble  and  benign  fea- 
tures was  in  itself,  as  the  narrator  tells  us,  an  education  to  all 
who  dwelt  in  the  valley  under  its  shadow.  Among  these  was 
Ernest,  and,  as  he  grew  from  youth  tlirough  manhood  to  old 
age,  the  presence  of  the  Face  was  ever  an  inspiration  to  him, 
until  at  last  he  himself  became  the  impersonation  of  all  that 
the  majestic  features  signified. 

The  symbolism  implied  within  the  narrative  is  not  diflBcult 
of  solution.  In  the  young  man  moulded  by  the  constant 
contemplation  of  the  titanic  features  on  the  mountain-side, 
Hawthorne  shows  how  the  attainment  of  all  that  is  best  in 
character  may  be  secured  through  unswerving  fidelity  to  the 
ideal. 

The  plot  structure  is  simple  in  the  extreme,  being  merely 
of  the  successive  episodic  sort;  and  the  setting  is  of  inter- 
est mainly  in  so  far  as  it  enters  into  the  shaping  of  Ernest's 
personality.  The  main  structural  concern  lies  in  the  charac- 
terization. 

One  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  going  down,  a 
mother  and  her  little  boy  sat  at  the  door  of  their  cot- 
tage, talking  about  the  Great  Stone  Face.  They  had 
but  to  lift  their  eyes,  and  there  jt  was  plainly  to  be  seen, 
though  miles  away,  with  the  sunshine  brightening  all  its 
features. 

And  what  was  the  Great  Stone  Face? 

>  From  Hawthorne's  Complete  Works.  Published  by  Houghton 
Mifflin  Company. 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE  79 

Embosomed  amongst  a  family  of  lofty  mountains, 
there  was  a  valley  so  s])acious  that  it  eontained  many 
thousand  inhabitants.  Some  of  these  good  people  dwelt 
in  log  huts,  with  the  black  forest  all  around  them,  on  the 
steep  and  difficult  hillsides.  Others  had  their  homes  in 
comfortable  farmhouses,  and  cultivated  the  rich  soil  on 
the  gentle  slopes  or  level  surfaces  of  the  valley.  Others, 
again,  were  congregated  into  populous  villages,  where 
some  wild,  highland  rivulet,  tumbling  down  from  its 
birthplace  in  the  upper  mountain  region,  had  been  caught 
and  tamed  by  human  cunning,  and  compelled  to  turn 
the  machinery  of  cotton-factories.  The  inhabitants  of 
this  valley,  in  short,  were  numerous,  and  of  many  modes 
of  life.  But  all  of  them,  grown  people  and  children,  had 
a  kind  of  familiarity  with  the  Great  Stone  Face,  although 
some  possessed  the  gift  of  distinguishing  this  grand 
natural  phenomenon  more  perfectly  than  many  of  their 
neighbors. 

The  Great  Stone  Face,  then,  was  a  work  of  Nature  in 
her  mood  of  majestic  playfulness,  formed  on  the  perpen- 
dicular side  of  a  mountain  by  some  immense  rocks,  which . 
had  been  thrown  together  in  such  a  position  as,  when 
viewed  at  a  proper  distance,  precisely  to  resemble  the 
features  of  the  human  countenance.  It  seemed  as  if  an 
enormous  giant,  or  a  Titan,  had  sculptured  his  own  like- 
ness on  the  precipice.  There  was  the  broad  arch  of  the 
forehead,  a  hundred  feet  in  height;  the  nose,  with  its  long 
bridge;  and  the  vast  lips,  which,  if  they  could  have 
s])oken,  would  have  rolled  their  thunder  accents  from 
one  end  of  the  valley  to  the  other.  True  it  is,  that  if  the 
spectator  approached  too  near,  he  lost  the  outline  of  the 
gigantic  visage,  and  could  discern  only  a  heap  of  ponder- 
ous and  gigantic  rocks,  piled  in  chaotic  ruin  one  upon 
another.  Retracing  his  steps,  however,  the  wondrous 


80  CHARACTER 

features  would  again  be  seen;  and  the  farther  he  with- 
drew from  them,  the  more  like  a  human  face,  with  all  its 
original  divinity  intact,  did  they  appear;  until,  as  it  grew 
dim  in  the  distance,  with  the  clouds  and  glorified  vapor 
of  the  mountains  clustering  about  it,  the  Great  Stone 
Face  seemed  positively  to  be  alive. 

It  was  a  happy  lot  for  children  to  grow  up  to  manhood 
or  womanhood  with  the  Great  Stone  Face  before  their 
eyes,  for  all  the  features  were  noble,  and  the  expression 
was  at  once  grand  and  sweet,  as  if  it  were  the  glow  of  a 
vast,  warm  heart,  that  embraced  all  mankind  in  its  affec- 
tions, and  had  room  for  more.  It  was  an  education  only 
to  look  at  it.  According  to  the  belief  of  many  people,  the 
valley  owed  much  of  its  fertility  to  this  benign  aspect 
that  was  continually  beaming  over  it,  illuminating  the 
clouds,  and  infusing  its  tenderness  into  the  sunshine. 

As  we  began  with  saying,  a  mother  and  her  little  boy 
sat  at  their  cottage-door,  gazing  at  the  Great  Stone  Face, 
and  talking  about  it.   The  child's  name  was  Ernest, 

"Mother,"  said  he,  while  the  Titanic  visage  smiled 
on  him,  "I  wish  that  it  could  speak,  for  it  looks  so 
very  kindly  that  its  voice  must  needs  be  pleasant.  If  I 
were  to  see  a  man  with  such  a  face,  I  should  love  him 
dearly." 

"If  an  old  prophecy  should  come  to  pass,"  answered 
his  mother,  "we  may  see  a  man,  some  time  or  other, 
with  exactly  such  a  face  as  that." 

"What  prophecy  do  you  mean,  dear  mother?  "  eagerly 
inquired  Ernest.   "Pray  tell  me  all  about  it!" 

So  his  mother  told  him  a  story  that  her  own  mother 
had  told  to  her,  when  she  herself  was  younger  than  little 
Ernest;  a  story,  not  of  things  that  were  past,  but  of  what 
was  yet  to  come;  a  story,  nevertheless,  so  very  old,  that 
even  the  Indians,  who  formerly  inhabited  this  valley. 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE  81 

had  heard  it  from  their  forefathers,  to  whom,  as  they  af- 
firmed, it  had  been  murmured  by  the  mountain  streams, 
and  whispered  by  the  wind  among  the  tree-toijs.  The 
purport  was,  that,  at  some  future  day,  a  child  siiould  be 
born  hereabouts,  who  was  destined  to  become  the  great- 
est and  noblest  personage  of  his  time,  and  whose  coun- 
tenance, in  manhood,  should  bear  an  exact  resemblance 
to  the  Great  Stone  Face.  Not  a  few  old-fashioned  ])eo- 
ple,  and  young  ones  likewise,  in  the  ardor  of  their  hopes, 
still  cherished  an  enduring  faith  in  this  old  prophecy. 
But  others,  who  had  seen  more  of  the  world,  had  watched 
and  waited  till  they  were  weary,  and  had  beheld  no  man 
with  such  a  face,  nor  any  man  that  proved  to  be  much 
greater  or  nobler  than  liis  neighbors,  concluded  it  to  be 
nothing  but  an  idle  tale.  At  all  events,  the  great  man  of 
the  prophecy  had  not  yet  appeared. 

"O  mother,  dear  mother!"  cried  Ernest,  clapping  his 
hands  above  his  head,  "I  do  hope  that  I  shall  live  to  see 
him!" 

His  mother  was  an  affectionate  and  thoughtful  wo- 
man, and  felt  that  it  was  wisest  not  to  discourage  the 
generous  hopes  of  her  little  boy.  So  she  only  said  to 
him,  "Perhaps  you  may." 

And  Ernest  never  forgot  the  story  that  his  mother 
told  him.  It  was  always  in  his  mind,  whenever  he  looked 
upon  the  Great  Stone  Face.  He  spent  his  childhood  in 
the  log  cottage  where  he  was  born,  and  was  dutiful  to 
his  mother,  and  helpful  to  her  in  many  things,  assisting 
her  much  with  his  little  hands,  and  more  with  his  loving 
heart.  In  this  manner,  from  a  happy  yet  often  })ensive 
child,  he  grew  up  to  be  a  mild,  quiet,  unobtrusive 
boy,  and  sun-browned  with  labor  in  the  fields,  but  with 
more  intelligence  brightening  his  aspect  than  is  seen  in 
many  lads  who  have  been  taught  at  famous  schools.  Yet 


\ 


82  CHARACTER 

Ernest  had  had  no  teacher,  save  only  that  the  Great 
Stone  Face  became  one  to  him.  When  the  toil  ef  the  day 
was  over,  he  would  gaze  at  it  for  hours,  until  he  began  to 
imagine  that  those  vast  features  recognized  him,  and 
gave  him  a  smile  of  kindness  and  encouragement,  re- 
sponsive to  his  own  look  of  veneration.  We  must  not 
take  upon  us  to  affirm  that  this  was  a  mistake,  although 
the  Face  may  have  looked  no  more  kindly  at  Ernest 
than  at  all  the  world  besides.  But  the  secret  was  that 
the  boy's  tender  and  confiding  simplicity  discerned  what 
other  people  could  not  see;  and  thus  the  love,  which  was 
meant  for  all,  became  his  peculiar  portion. 

About  this  time  there  went  a  rumor  throughout  the 
valley,  that  the  great  man,  foretold  from  ages  long  ago, 
who  was  to  bear  a  resemblance  to  the  Great  Stone  Face, 
had  appeared  at  last.  It  seems  that,  many  years  before, 
a  young  man  had  migrated  from  the  valley  and  settled 
at  a  distant  seaport,  where,  after  getting  together  a  little 
money,  he  had  set  up  as  a  shopkeeper.  His  name  —  but 
I  could  never  learn  whether  it  was  his  real  one,  or  a  nick- 
name that  had  grown  out  of  his  habits  and  success  in 
life  —  was.  Gather^old.  Being  shrewd  and  active,  and 
endowed  by  Providence  with  that  inscrutable  faculty 
which  develops  itself  in  what  the  world  calls  luck,  he  be- 
came an  exceedingly  rich  merchant,  and  owner  of  a  whole 
fleet  of  bulky-bottomed  ships.  All  the  countries  of  the 
globe  appeared  to  join  hands  for  the  mere  purpose  of 
adding  heap  after  heap  to  the  mountainous  accumula- 
tion of  this  one  man's  wealth.  The  cold  regions  of  the 
north,  almost  within  the  gloom  and  shadow  of  the  Arctic 
Circle,  sent  him  their  tribute  in  the  shape  of  furs;  hot 
Africa  sifted  for  him  the  golden  sands  of  her  rivers,  and 
gathered  up  the  ivory  tusks  of  her  great  elephants  out  of 
the  forests;  the  East  came  bringing  him  the  rich  shawls. 


TUE  GREAT  STONE  FACE  83 

and  spices,  and  teas,  and  the  effulgence  of  diamonds,  and 
the  gleaming  purity  of  large  i)earls.  The  ocean,  not  to 
be  behindhand  with  the  earth,  yielded  up  her  mighty 
whales,  that  Mr.  Gathergold  might  sell  their  oil,  and 
make  a  profit  on  it.  Be  the  original  commodity  what  it 
might,  it  was  gold  within  his  grasp.  It  might  be  said  of 
him,  as  of  Midas  in  the  fable,  that  whatever  he  touched 
with  his  finger  immediately  glistened,  and  grew  yellow, 
and  was  changed  at  once  into  sterling  metal,  or,  which 
suited  him  still  better,  into  piles  of  coin.  And,  when  Mr. 
Gathergold  had  become  so  very  rich  that  it  would  have 
taken  him  a  hundred  years  only  to  count  his  wealth,  he 
bethought  himself  of  his  native  valley,  and  resolved  to  go 
back  thither,  and  end  his  days  where  he  was  born.  With 
this  purpose  in  view,  he  sent  a  skillful  architect  to  build 
him  such  a  palace  as  should  be  fit  for  a  man  of  his  vast 
wealth  to  live  in. 

As  I  have  said  above,  it  had  already  been  rumored  in 
the  valley  that  Mr.  Gathergold  had  turned  out  to  be  the 
prophetic  personage  so  long  and  vainly  looked  for,  and 
that  his  visage  was  the  perfect  and  undeniable  similitude 
of  the  Great  Stone  Face.  People  were  the  more  ready  to 
believe  that  this  must  needs  be  the  fact,  when  they  be- 
held the  splendid  edifice  that  rose,  as  if  by  enchantment, 
on  the  site  of  his  father's  old  weather-beaten  farmhouse. 
The  exterior  was  of  marble,  so  dazzlingly  white  that  it 
seemed  as  though  the  whole  structure  might  melt  away 
in  the  sunshine,  like  those  humbler  ones  which  Mr.  Gath- 
ergold, in  his  young  play-days,  before  his  fingers  were 
gifted  with  the  touch  of  transmutation,  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  build  of  snow.  It  had  a  richly  ornamented  por- 
tico, supported  by  tall  i)illars,  beneath  which  was  a  lofty 
door,  studded  with  silver  knobs,  and  made  of  a  kind  of 
variegated  wood  that  had  been  brought  from  beyond  the 


84  CHARACTER 

sea.  The  windows,  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling  of  each 
stately  apartment,  were  composed,  respectively,  of  but 
one  enormous  pane  of  glass,  so  transparently  pure  that  it 
was  said  to  be  a  finer  medium  than  even  the  vacant  atmo- 
sphere. Hardly  anybody  had  been  permitted  to  see  the 
interior  of  this  palace;  but  it  was  reported,  and  with  good 
semblance  of  truth,  to  be  far  more  gorgeous  than  the  out- 
side, insomuch  that  whatever  was  iron  or  brass  in  other 
houses  was  silver  or  gold  in  this;  and  Mr.  Gathergold's 
bedchamber,  especially,  made  such  a  glittering  appear- 
ance that  no  ordinary  man  would  have  been  able  to  close 
his  eyes  there.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Gathergold 
was  now  so  inured  to  wealth,  that  perhaps  he  could  not 
have  closed  his  eyes  unless  where  the  gleam  of  it  was  cer- 
tain to  find  its  way  beneath  his  eyelids. 

In  due  time,  the  mansion  was  finished ;  next  came  the 
upholsterers,  with  magnificent  furniture;  then  a  whole 
troop  of  black  and  white  servants,  the  harbingers  of 
Mr.  Gathergold,  who,  in  his  owti  majestic  person,  was 
expected  to  arrive  at  sunset.  Our  friend  Ernest,  mean- 
while, had  been  deeply  stirred  by  the  idea  that  the  great 
man,  the  noble  man,  the  man  of  prophecy,  after  so  many 
ages  of  delay,  was  at  length  to  be  made  manifest  to  his 
native  valley.  He  knew,  boy  as  he  was,  that  there  were 
a  thousand  ways  in  which  Mr.  Gathergold,  with  his  vast 
wealth,  might  transform  himself  into  an  angel  of  benefi- 
cence, and  assume  a  control  over  human  affairs  as  wide 
and  benignant  as  the  smile  of  the  Great  Stone  Face.  Full 
of  faith  and  hope,  Ernest  doubted  not  that  what  the 
people  said  was  true,  and  that  now  he  was  to  behold 
the  living  likeness  of  those  wondrous  features  on  the 
mountainside.  While  the  boy  was  still  gazing  up  the 
valley,  and  fancying,  as  he  always  did,  that  the  Great 
Stone  Face  returned  his  gaze  and  looked  kindly  at  him, 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE  85 

ihe  rumbling  of  wheels  was  heard,  approaching  swiftly 
along  the  winding  road. 

"Here  he  comes!"  cried  a  group  of  people  who  were 
assembled  to  witness  the  arrival.  "  Here  comes  the  great 
Mr.  Gathergold!" 

A  carriage,  drawn  by  four  horses,  dashed  round  the 
turn  of  the  road.  Within  it,  thrust  partly  out  of  the  win- 
dow, appeared  the  physiognomy  of  the  old  man,  with  a 
skin  as  yellow  as  if  his  own  Midas-hand  had  transmuted 
it.  He  had  a  low  forehead,  small,  sharp  eyes,  puckered 
about  with  innumerable  wrinkles,  and  very  thin  lips, 
which  he  made  still  thinner  by  pressing  them  forcibly 
together. 

"The  very  image  of  the  Great  Stone  Face!"  shouted 
the  people.  "Sure  enough,  the  old  prophecy  is  true; 
and  here  we  have  the  great  man  come,  at  last! " 

And,  what  greatly  perplexed  Ernest,  they  seemed 
actually  to  believe  that  here  was  the  likeness  which  they 
spoke  of.  By  the  roadside  there  chanced  to  be  an  old 
beggar-woman  and  two  little  beggar-children,  stragglers 
from  some  far-off  region,  who,  as  the  carriage  rolled  on- 
ward, held  out  their  hands  and  lifted  up  their  doleful 
voices,  most  piteously  beseeching  charity.  A  yellow 
claw  —  the  very  same  that  had  clawed  together  so  much 
wealth  —  poked  itself  out  of  the  coach- window,  and 
dropped  some  copper  coins  upon  the  ground;  so  that, 
though  the  great  man's  name  seems  to  have  been  Gather- 
gold,  he  might  just  as  suitably  have  been  nicknamed 
Scaltercop])cr.  Still,  nevertheless,  with  an  earnest  shout, 
and  evidently  with  as  much  good  faith  as  ever,  the  peo- 
ple bellowed,  — 

"He  is  the  very  image  of  the  Great  Stone  Face!" 

But  Ernest  turned  sadly  from  the  wrinkled  shrewd- 
ness of  that  sordid  visiige,  and  gazed  up  the  valley, 


86  CHARACTER 

where,  amid  a  gathering  mist,  gilded  by  the  last  sun- 
beams, he  could  still  distinguish  those  glorious  features 
which  had  impressed  themselves  into  his  soul.  Their  as- 
pect cheered  him.  What  did  the  benign  lips  seem  to  say? 
"He  will  come!  Fear  not,  Ernest;  the  man  will  come! " 
The  years  went  on,  and  Ernest  ceased  to  be  a  boy.  He 
had  grown  to  be  a  young  man  now.  He  attracted  little 
notice  from  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  valley;  for  they 
saw  nothing  remarkable  in  his  way  of  life,  save  that, 
when  the  labor  of  the  day  was  over,  he  still  loved  to  go 
apart  and  gaze  and  meditate  upon  the  Great  Stone  Face. 
According  to  their  idea  of  the  matter,  it  was  a  folly,  in- 
deed, but  pardonable,  inasmuch  as  Ernest  was  industri- 
ous, kind,  and  neighborly,  and  neglected  no  duty  for  the 
sake  of  indulging  this  idle  habit.  They  knew  not  that 
the  Great  Stone  Face  had  become  a  teacher  to  him,  and 
that  the  sentiment  which  was  expressed  in  it  would  en- 
large the  young  man's  heart,  and  fill  it  with  wider  and 
deeper  sympathies  than  other  hearts.  They  knew  not 
that  thence  would  come  a  better  wisdom  than  could  be 
learned  from  books,  and  a  better  life  than  could  be 
moulded  on  the  defaced  example  of  other  human  lives. 
Neither  did  Ernest  know  that  the  thoughts  and  affec- 
tions which  came  to  him  so  naturally,  in  the  fields  and  at 
the  fireside,  and  wherever  he' communed  with  himself, 
were  of  a  higher  tone  than  those  which  all  men  shared 
with  him.  A  simple  soul,  —  simple  as  when  his  mother 
first  taught  him  the  old  prophecy,  —  he  beheld  the 
marvelous  features  beaming  adown  the  valley,  and  still 
wondered  that  their  human  counterpart  was  so  long  in 
making  his  appearance. 

By  this  time  poor  Mr.  Gathergold  was  dead  and  bur- 
ied; and  the  oddest  j)art  of  the  matter  was,  that  his 
wealth,  which  was  the  body  and  spirit  of  his  existence, 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE  87 

had  disappeared  before  his  death,  leaving  nothing  of 
him  but  a  living  skeleton,  covered  over  with  a  wrinkled, 
yellow  skin.  Since  the  melting  away  of  his  gold,  it  had 
been  very  generally  conceded  that  there  was  no  such 
striking  resembla^nce,  after  all,  betwixt  the  ignoble  fea- 
tures of  the  ruined  merchant  and  that  majestic  face  upon 
the  mountain-side.  So  the  people  ceased  to  honor  him 
during  his  lifetime,  and  quietly  consigned  him  to  forget- 
fulness  after  his  decease.  Once  in  a  while,  it  is  true,  his 
memorji  was  brought  up  in  connection  with  the  magnif- 
icent palace  which  he  had  built,  and  which  had  long  ago 
been  turned  into  a  hotel  for  the  accommodation  of  stran- 
gers, multitudes  of  whom  came,  every  summer,  to  visit 
that  famous  natural  curiosity,  the  Great  Stone  Face. 
Thus,  Mr.  Gathergold  being  discredited  and  thro^NTi  into 
the  shade,  the  man  of  prophecy  was  yet  to  come. 

It  so  happened  that  a  native-born  son  of  the  valley, 
many  years  before,  had  enlisted  as  a  soldier,  and,  after  a 
great  deal  of  hard  fighting,  had  now  become  an  illustri- 
ous commander.  Whatever  he  may  be  called  in  history, 
he  was  known  in  camps  and  on  the  battle-field  under  the 
nickname  of  Old  Blood-and-Thunder.  This  war-worn 
veteran,  being  now  infirm  with  age  and  wounds,  and 
weary  of  the  turmoil  of  a  military  life,  and  of  the  roll  of 
the  drum  and  the  clangor  of  the  trumpet,  that  had  so  long 
been  ringing  in  his  ears,  had  lately  signified  a  purpose  of 
returning  to  his  native  valley,  ho])ing  to  find  repose 
where  he  remembered  to  have  left  it.  The  inhabitants, 
his  old  neighbors  and  their  grown-u])  children,  were  re- 
solved to  welcome  the  renowned  warrior  with  a  salute 
of  cannon  and  a  public  dinner;  and  all  the  more  enthusi- 
astically, it  being  affirmed  that  now,  at  last,  the  like- 
ness of  the  Great  Stone  Face  had  actually  appeared. 
An  aide-de-camp  of  Old  Blood-and-Tlumder,  traveling 


88  CHARACTER 

through  the  valley,  was  said  to  have  been  struck  with  the 
resemblance.  Moreover,  the  schoolmates  and  early  ac- 
quaintances of  the  general  were  ready  to  testify,  on  oath, 
that,  to  the  best  of  their  recollection,  the  aforesaid  gen- 
eral had  been  exceedingly  like  the  majestic  image,  even 
when  a  boy,  only  that  the  idea  had  never  occurred  to 
them  at  that  period.  Great,  therefore,  was  the  excite- 
ment throughout  the  valley;  and  many  people,  who  had 
never  once  thought  of  glancing  at  the  Great  Stone  Face 
for  years  before,  now  spent  their  time  in  gazing  at  it,  for 
the  sake  of  knowing  exactly  how  General  Blood-and- 
Thunder  looked. 

On  the  day  of  the  great  festival,  Ernest,  with  all  the 
other  people  of  the  valley,  left  their  work,  and  proceeded 
to  the  spot  where  the  sylvan  banquet  was  prepared.  As 
he  approached,  the  loud  voice  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Battle- 
blast  was  heard,  beseeching  a  blessing  on  the  good  things 
set  before  them,  and  on  the  distinguished  friend  of  peace 
in  whose  honor  they  were  assembled.  The  tables  were 
arranged  in  a  cleared  space  of  the  woods,  shut  in  by  the 
surrounding  trees,  except  where  a  vista  opened  eastwards 
and  afforded  a  distant  view  of  the  Great  Stone  Face. 
Over  the  general's  chair,  which  was  a  relic  from  the  home 
of  Washington,  there  was  an  arch  of  verdant  boughs, 
with  the  laurel  i)rofusely  intermixed,  and  surmounted  by 
his  country's  banner,  beneath  which  he  had  won  his  vic- 
tories. Our  friend  Ernest  raised  himself  on  his  tiptoes, 
in  hopes  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  celebrated  guest;  but 
there  was  a  mighty  crowd  about  the  tables  anxious  to 
hear  the  toasts  and  speeches,  and  to  catch  any  word  that 
might  fall  from  the  general  in  reply;  and  a  volunteer 
company,  doing  duty  as  a  guard,  i)ricked  ruthlessly  with 
their  bayonets  at  any  particularly  quiet  person  among 
the  throng.    So  Ernest,  being  of  an  unobtrusive  charac- 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE  89 

ter,  was  thrust  quite  into  the  background,  where  he  could 
see  no  more  of  Old  Blood-and-Thunder's  physiognomy 
than  if  it  had  been  still  blazing  on  the  battle-field.  To 
console  himself,  he  turned  towards  the  Great  Stone 
Face,  which,  like  a  faithful  and  long-remembered  friend, 
looked  back  and  smiled  upon  him  through  the  vista  of 
the  forest.  Meantime,  however,  he  could  overhear  the 
remarks  of  various  individuals,  who  were  comparing  the 
features  of  the  hero  with  the  face  on  the  distant  moun- 
tain-side. 

"'T  is  the  same  face,  to  a  hair!"  cried  one  man,  cut- 
ting a  caper  for  joy. 

"Wonderfully  like,  that 's  a  fact!"  responded  another. 

"Like!  why,  I  call  it  Old  Blood-and-Thunder  himself, 
in  a  monstrous  looking-glass! "  cried  a  third.  "And  why 
not?  He  's  the  greatest  man  of  this  or  any  other  age,  be- 
yond a  doubt." 

And  then  all  three  of  the  speakers  gave  a  great  shout, 
which  communicated  electricity  to  the  crowd,  and 
called  forth  a  roar  from  a  thousand  voices,  that  went  re- 
verberating for  miles  among  the  mountains,  until  you 
might  have  supposed  that  the  Great  Stone  Face  had 
poured  its  thunder-breath  into  the  cry.  All  these  com- 
ments, and  this  vast  enthusiasm,  served  the  more  to  in- 
terest our  friend;  nor  did  he  think  of  questioning  that 
now,  at  length,  the  mountain-visage  had  found  its  hu- 
man counterjjart.  It  is  true,  Ernest  had  imagined  that 
this  long-looked-for  personage  would  appear  in  the  char- 
acter of  a  man  of  peace,  uttering  wisdom,  and  doing 
good,  and  making  people  happy.  But,  taking  an  ha- 
bitual breadth  of  view,  with  all  his  simplicity,  he  con- 
tended that  Providence  should  choose  its  own  method 
of  blessing  mankind,  and  could  conceive  that  this  great 
end  might  be  eircctod  even  by  a  warrior  and  a  bloody 


90  CHARACTER 

sword,  should  inscrutable  wisdom  see  fit  to  order  mat- 
ters so. 

"  The  general !  the  general ! "  was  now  the  cry.  "  Hush ! 
silence!  Old  Blood-and-Thunder 's  going  to  make  a 
speech." 

Even  so;  for,  the  cloth  being  removed,  the  general's 
health  had  been  drunk,  amid  shouts  of  applause,  and  he 
now  stood  upon  his  feet  to  thank  the  company.  Ernest 
saw  him.  There  he  was,  over  the  shoulders  of  the  crowd, 
from  the  two  glittering  epaulets  and  embroidered  collar 
upward,  beneath  the  arch  of  green  boughs  with  inter- 
twined laurel,  and  the  banner  drooping  as  if  to  shade  his 
brow !  And  there,  too,  visible  in  the  same  glance,  through 
the  vista  of  the  forest,  appeared  the  Great  Stone  Face! 
And  was  there,  indeed,  such  a  resemblance  as  the  crowd 
had  testified?  Alas,  Ernest  could  not  recognize  it!  He 
beheld  a  war-worn  and  weather-beaten  countenance, 
full  of  energy,  and  expressive  of  an  iron  will;  but  the  gen- 
tle wisdom,  the  deep,  broad,  tender  sympathies,  were  al- 
together wanting  in  Old  Blood-and-Thunder's  visage; 
and  even  if  the  Great  Stone  Face  had  assumed  his  look 
of  stern  command,  the  milder  traits  would  still  have 
tempered  it. 

"This  is  not  the  man  of  prophecy,"  sighed  Ernest  to 
himself,  as  he  made  his  way  out  of  the  throng.  "And 
must  the  world  wait  longer  yet?" 

The  mists  had  congregated  about  the  distant  moun- 
tain-side, and  there  were  seen  the  grand  and  awful  fea- 
tures of  the  Great  Stone  Face,  awful  Init  benignant,  as  if 
a  mighty  angel  were  sitting  among  the  hills,  and  enrobing 
himself  in  a  cloud-vesture  of  gold  and  purple.  As  he 
looked,  Ernest  could  hardly  believe  but  that  a  smile 
beamed  over  the  whole  visage,  with  a  radiance  still 
brightening,  although  without  motion  of  the  lips.  It  was 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE  91 

probably  the  effect  of  the  western  sunshine,  melting 
through  the  thinly  diffused  vapors  that  had  swept  be- 
tween him  and  the  object  that  he  gazed  at.  But  —  as  it 
always  did  —  the  aspect  of  his  marvelous  friend  made 
Ernest  as  hopeful  as  if  he  had  never  hoped  in  vain, 

"  Fear  not,  Ernest,"  said  his  heart,  even  as  if  the  Great 
Face  were  whispering  him,  —  "fear  not,  Ernest;  he  will 
come." 

More  years  sped  swiftly  and  tranquilly  away.  Ernest 
still  dwelt  in  his  native  valley,  and  was  now  a  man  of 
middle  age.  By  imperceptible  degrees,  he  had  become 
known  among  the  people.  Now,  as  heretofore,  he  la- 
bored for  his  bread,  and  was  the  same  simple-hearted 
man  that  he  had  always  been.  But  he  had  thought  and 
felt  so  much,  he  had  given  so  many  of  the  best  hours  of 
his  life  to  unworldly  hopes  for  some  great  good  to  man- 
kind, that  it  seemed  as  though  he  had  been  talking  with 
the  angels,  and  had  imbibed  a  portion  of  their  wisdom 
unawares.  It  was  visible  in  the  calm  and  well-considered 
beneficence  of  his  daily  life,  the  quiet  stream  of  which 
had  made  a  wide  green  margin  all  along  its  course.  Not 
a  day  passed  by,  that  the  world  was  not  the  better  be- 
cause this  man,  humble  as  he  was,  had  lived.  He  never 
stepped  aside  from  his  own  path,  yet  would  always  reach 
a  blessing  to  his  neighbor.  Almost  involuntarily,  too,  he 
had  become  a  preacher.  The  pure  and  high  simplicity  of 
his  thought,  which,  as  one  of  its  manifestations,  took 
shape  in  the  good  deeds  that  dropped  silently  from  his 
hand,  flowed  also  forth  in  speech.  He  uttered  truths 
that  wrought  upon  and  moulded  the  lives  of  those  who 
heard  him.  His  auditors,  it  may  be,  never  suspected 
that  Ernest,  their  own  neighbor  and  familiar  friend,  was 
more  than  an  ordinary  man;  least  of  all  did  Ernest  him- 
self suspect  it;  but,  inevitably  as  the  murmur  of  a  rivulet 


92  CHARACTER 

came  thoughts  out  of  his  mouth  that  no  other  human 
Hps  had  spoken. 

When  the  people's  minds  had  had  a  Httle  time  to  cool, 
they  were  ready  enough  to  acknowledge  their  mistake 
in  imagining  a  similarity  between  General  Blood-and- 
Thunder's  truculent  physiognomy  and  the  benign  visage 
on  the  mountain-side.  But  now,  again,  there  were  re- 
ports and  many  paragraphs  in  the  newspapers,  affirming 
that  the  likeness  of  the  Great  Stone  Face  had  appeared 
upon  the  broad  shoulders  of  a  certain  eminent  states- 
man. He,  like  Mr.  Gathergold  and  Old  Blood-and- 
Thunder,  was  a  native  of  the  valley,  but  had  left  it  in  his 
early  days,  and  had  taken  up  the  trades  of  law  and  poli- 
tics. Instead  of  the  rich  man's  wealth  and  the  warrior's 
sword,  he  had  but  a  tongue,  and  it  was  mightier  than 
both  together.  So  wonderfully  eloquent  was  he,  that 
whatever  he  might  choose  to  say,  his  auditors  had  no 
choice  but  to  believe  him;  wrong  looked  like  right,  and 
right  like  wrong;  for  when  it  pleased  him,  he  could  make 
a  kind  of  illuminated  fog  with  his  mere  breath,  and  ob- 
scure the  natural  daylight  with  it.  His  tongue,  indeed, 
was  a  magic  instrument:  sometimes  it  rumbled  like  the 
thunder;  sometimes  it  warbled  like  the  sweetest  music. 
It  was  the  blast  of  war,  —  the  song  of  peace;  and  it 
seemed  to  have  a  heart  in  it,  when  there  was  no  such 
matter.  In  good  truth,  he  was  a  wondrous  man;  and 
when  his  tongue  had  acquired  him  all  other  imaginable 
success,  —  when  it  had  been  heard  in  halls  of  state,  and 
in  the  courts  of  princes  and  potentates,  —  after  it  had 
made  him  known  all  over  the  world,  even  as  a  voice  cry- 
ing from  shore  to  shore,  —  it  finally  persuaded  his  coun- 
trymen to  elect  him  for  the  Presidency.  Before  this 
.time,  —  indeed,  as  soon  as  he  began  to  grow  celebrated, 
■ —  his  admirers  had  found  out  the  resemblance  between 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE  93 

him  and  the  Great  Stone  Face;  and  so  much  were  they 
struck  by  it,  that  throughout  the  country  this  distin- 
guished gentleman  was  known  by  the  name  of  Old  Stony 
Phi^-  The  phrase  was  considered  as  giving  a  highly  fa- 
vorable asi)ect  to  his  j^olitical  ])rospects;  for,  as  is  like- 
wise the  case  with  the  Popedom,  nobody  ever  becomes 
President  without  taking  a  name  other  than  his  own. 

While  his  friends  were  doing  their  best  to  make  him 
President,  Old  Stony  Phiz,  as  he  was  called,  set  out  on  a 
visit  to  the  valley  where  he  was  born.  Of  course,  he  had 
no  other  object  than  to  shake  hands  with  his  fellow-citi- 
zens, and  neither  thought  nor  cared  about  any  effect 
which  his  progress  through  the  country  might  have  upon 
the  election.  Magnificent  preparations  were  made  to  re- 
ceive the  illustrious  statesman ;  a  cavalcade  of  horsemen 
set  forth  to  meet  him  at  the  boundary  line  of  the  State, 
and  all  the  peoi)le  left  their  business  and  gathered  along 
the  wayside  to  see  him  pass.  Among  these  was  Ernest. 
Though  more  than  once  disappointed,  as  we  have  seen, 
he  had  such  a  hopeful  and  confiding  nature,  that  he  was 
always  ready  to  believe  in  whatever  seemed  beautiful 
and  good.  He  kept  his  heart  continually  open,  and  thus 
was  sure  to  catch  the  blessing  from  on  high  when  it 
should  come.  So  now  again,  as  buoyantly  as  ever,  he 
went  forth  to  behold  the  likeness  of  the  Great  Stone 
Face. 

The  cavalcade  came  prancing  along  the  road,  with  a 
great  clattering  of  hoofs  and  a  mighty  cloud  of  dust, 
which  rose  up  so  dense  and  high  that  the  visage  of  the 
mountain-side  was  completely  hidden  from  Ernest's 
eyes.  All  the  great  men  of  the  neighborhood  were  there 
on  horseback;  militia  officers,  in  uniform;  the  member  of 
Congress;  the  sheriff  of  the  county;  the  editors  of  news- 
papers; and  many  a  farmer,  too,  had  mounted  his  patient 


I 

94  CHARACTER 

steed,  with  his  Sunday  coat  upon  his  back.  It  really  was 
a  very  brilliant  spectacle,  especially  as  there  were  numer- 
ous banners  flaunting  over  the  cavalcade,  on  some  of 
which  were  gorgeous  portraits  of  the  illustrious  states- 
man and  the  Great  Stone  Face,  smiling  familiarly  at  one 
another,  like  two  brothers.  If  the  pictures  were  to  be 
trusted,  the  mutual  resemblance,  it  must  be  confessed, 
was  marvelous.  We  must  not  forget  to  mention  that 
there  was  a  band  of  music,  which  made  the  echoes  of  the 
mountains  ring  and  reverberate  with  the  loud  triumph 
of  its  strains;  so  that  airy  and  soul-thrilling  melodies 
broke  out  among  all  the  heights  and  hollows,  as  if  every 
nook  of  his  native  valley  had  found  a  voice,  to  welcome 
the  distinguished  guest.  But  the  grandest  effect  was 
when  the  far-off  mountain  precipice  flung  back  the 
music;  for  then  the  Great  Stone  Face  itself  seemed  to 
be  swelling  the  triumphant  chorus,  in  acknowledgment 
that,  at  length,  the  man  of  prophecy  was  come. 

All  this  while  the  people  were  throwing  up  their  hats 
and  shouting,  with  enthusiasm  so  contagious  that  the 
heart  of  Ernest  kindled  up,  and  he  likewise  threw  up  his 
hat,  and  shouted,  as  loudly  as  the  loudest,  "Huzza  for 
the  great  man!  Huzza  for  Old  Stony  Phiz ! "  But  as  yet 
he  had  not  seen  him. 

"Here  he  is,  now! "  cried  those  who  stood  near  Ernest. 
"There !  There !  Look  at  Old  Stony  Phiz  and  then  at  the 
Old  Man  of  the  Mountain,  and  see  if  they  are  not  as  like 
as  two  twin-brothers!" 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  gallant  array  came  an  open 
barouche,  drawn  by  four  white  horses;  and  in  the  ba- 
rouche, with  his  massive  head  uncovered,  sat  the  illus- 
trious statesman,  Old  Stony  Phiz  himself. 

"Confess  it,"  said  one  of  Ernest's  neighbors  to  him, 
"the  Great  Stone  Face  has  met  its  match  at  last!" 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE  95 

Now,  it  must  be  owned  that,  at  his  first  glimpse  of  the 
countenance  which  was  bowing  and  smihng  from  the  ba- 
rouche, Ernest  did  fancy  that  there  was  a  resemblance 
between  it  and  the  old  familiar  face  upon  the  mountain- 
side. The  brow,  with  its  massive  depth  and  loftiness,  and 
all  the  other  features,  indeed,  were  boldly  and  strongly 
hewn,  as  if  in  emulation  of  a  more  than  heroic,  of  a 
Titanic  model.  But  the  sublimity  and  stateliness,  the 
grand  expression  of  a  divine  sympathy,  that  illuminated 
the  mountain  visage  and  etherealized  its  ponderous  gran- 
ite substance  into  spirit,  might  here  be  sought  in  vain. 
Something  had  been  originally  left  out,  or  had  departed. 
And  therefore  the  marvelously  gifted  statesman  had 
always  a  weary  gloom  in  the  deep  caverns  of  his  eyes,  as 
of  a  child  that  has  outgrown  its  playthings  or  a  man 
of  mighty  faculties  and  little  aims,  whose  life,  with  all 
its  high  performances,  was  vague  and  empty,  because 
no  high  purpose  had  endowed  it  with  reality. 

Still,  Ernest's  neighbor  was  thrusting  his  elbow  into 
his  side,  and  pressing  him  for  an  answer. 

"  Confess !  confess !  Is  not  he  the  very  picture  of  your 
Old  Man  of  the  Mountain?" 

"No!"  said  Ernest  bluntly,  "I  see  little  or  no  like- 
ness." 

"Then  so  much  the  worse  for  the  Great  Stone  Face!" 
answered  his  neighbor;  and  again  he  set  up  a  shout  for 
Old  Stony  Phiz. 

But  Ernest  turned  away,  melancholy,  and  almost 
despondent:  for  this  was  the  saddest  of  his  disappoint- 
ments, to  behold  a  man  who  might  have  fulfilled  the 
prophecy,  and  had  not  willed  to  do  so.  Meantime,  the  ' 
cavalcade,  the  banners,  the  music,  and  the  barouches 
swept  past  him,  with  the  vociferous  crowd  in  the  rear, 
leaving  the  dust  to  settle  down,  and  the  Great  Stone 


\ 


96  CHARACTER 

Face  to  be  revealed  again,  with  the  grandeur  that  it  had 
worn  for  untold  centuries. 

"Lo,  here  I  am,  Ernest!"  the  benign  lips  seemed  to 
say.  "I  have  waited  longer  than  thou,  and  am  not  yet 
weary.    Fear  not;  the  man  will  come." 

The  years  hurried  onward,  treading  in  their  haste  on 
one  another's  heels.     And  now  they  began  to  bring 
white  hairs,  and  scatter  them  over  the  head  of  Ernest; 
they  made  reverend  wrinkles  across  his  forehead,  and 
furrows  in  his  cheeks.   He  was  an  aged  man.   But  not 
in  vain  had  he  grown  old:  more  than  the  white  hairs 
on  his  head  were  the  sage  thoughts  in  his  mind;  his 
wrinkles  and  furrows  were  inscriptions  that  Time  had 
graved,  and  in  which  he  had  written  legends  of  wisdom 
that  had  been  tested  by  the  tenor  of  a  life.   And  Ernest 
had  ceased  to  be  obscure.     Unsought  for,  undesired, 
had  come  the  fame  which  so  many  seek,  and  made  him 
known  in  the  great  world,  beyond  the  limits  of  the 
valley  in  which  he  had  dwelt  so  quietly.    College  pro- 
fessors, and  even  the  active  men  of  cities,  came  from 
far  to  see  and  converse  with  Ernest;  for  the  report  had 
gone  abroad  that  this  simple  husbandman  had  ideas 
unlike  those  of  other  men,  not  gained  from  books,  but 
of  a  higher  tone,  —  a  tranquil  and  familiar  majesty, 
as  if  he  had  been  talking  with  the  angels  as  his  daily 
friends.      Whether  it  were  sage,   statesman,   or  phil- 
anthropist,   Ernest   received   these    visitors    with    the 
gentle  sincerity  that  had  characterized  him  from  boy- 
hood, and  spoke  freely  with  them  of  whatever  came 
uppermost,  or  lay  deepest  in  his  heart  or  their  own. 
While  they  talked  together,  his  face  would  kindle,  un- 
awares, and  shine  upon  them,  as  with  a  mild  evening 
light.     Pensive  with  the  fullness  of  such  discourse,  his 
guests  took  leave  and  went  their  way;  and  passing  up 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE  97 

the  valley,  paused  to  look  at  the  Great  Stone  Face, 
imagining  that  they  had  seen  its  likeness  in  a  human 
countenance,  but  could  not  remember  where. 

While  Ernest  had  been  growing  up  and  growing  old, 
a  bountiful  Providence  had  granted  a  new  poet  to  this 
earth.  He,  likewise,  was  a  native  of  the  valley,  but  had 
spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life  at  a  distance  from 
that  romantic  region,  pouring  out  his  sweet  music  amid 
the  bustle  and  din  of  cities.  Often,  however,  did  the 
mountains  which  had  been  familiar  to  him  in  his  child- 
hood lift  their  snowy  peaks  into  the  clear  atmosphere 
of  his  poetry.  Neither  was  the  Great  Stone  Face  for- 
gotten, for  the  poet  had  celebrated  it  in  an  ode,  which 
was  grand  enough  to  have  been  uttered  by  its  own  majes- 
tic lips.  This  man  of  genius,  we  may  say,  had  come  down 
from  heaven  with  wonderful  endowments.  If  he  sang 
of  a  mountain,  the  eyes  of  all  mankind  beheld  a  mightier 
grandeur  reposing  on  its  breast,  or  soaring  to  its  summit, 
than  had  before  been  seen  there.  If  his  theme  were  a 
lovely  lake,  a  celestial  smile  had  now  been  thrown  over 
it,  to  gleam  forever  on  its  surface.  If  it  were  the  vast 
old  sea,  even  the  deep  immensity  of  its  dread  bosom 
seemed  to  swell  the  higher,  as  if  moved  by  the  emotions 
of  the  song.  Thus  the  world  assumed  another  and  a 
better  aspect  from  the  hour  that  the  poet  blessed  it 
with  his  happy  eyes.  The  Creator  had  bestowed  him, 
as  the  last  best  touch  to  his  own  handiwork.  Creation 
was  not  finished  till  the  poet  came  to  interpret,  and  so 
complete  it. 

The  effect  was  no  less  high  and  beautiful,  when  his 
human  brethren  were  the  subject  of  his  verse.  The 
man  or  woman,  sordid  with  the  common  dust  of  life, 
who  crossed  his  daily  path,  and  the  little  child  who 
played  in  it,  were  glorified  if   he  beheld  them  in  his 


98  CHARACTER 

mood  of  poetic  faith.  He  showed  the  golden  links  of  the 
great  chain  that  intertwined  them  with  an  angelic  kin- 
dred; he  brought  out  the  hidden  traits  of  a  celestial 
birth  that  made  them  worthy  of  such  kin.  Some,  in- 
deed, there  were,  who  thought  to  show  the  soundness 
of  their  judgment  by  affirming  that  all  the  beauty  and 
dignity  of  the  natural  world  existed  only  in  the  poet's 
fancy.  Let  such  men  speak  for  themselves,  who  un- 
doubtedly appear  to  have  been  spawned  forth  by  Nature 
with  a  contemptuous  bitterness;  she  having  plastered 
them  up  out  of  her  refuse  stuff,  after  all  the  swine  were 
made.  As  respects  all  things  else,  the  poet's  ideal  was 
the  truest  truth. 

The  songs  of  this  poet  found  their  way  to  Ernest. 
He  read  them  after  his  customary  toil,  seated  on  the 
bench  before  his  cottage-door,  where  for  such  a  length 
"  of  time  he  had  filled  his  repose  with  thought,  by  gazing 
at  the  Great  Stone  Face.  And  now  as  he  read  stanzas 
that  caused  the  soul  to  thrill  within  him,  he  lifted  his 
eyes  to  the  vast  countenance  beaming  on  him  so  be- 
nignantly. 

"O  majestic  friend,"  he  murmured,  addressing  the 
Great  Stone  Face,  "is  not  this  man  worthy  to  resemble 
thee?" 

The  Face  seemed  to  smile,  but  answered  not  a  word. 

Now  it  happened  that  the  poet,  though  he  dwelt  so 
far  away,  had  not  only  heard  of  Ernest,  but  had  medi- 
tated much  upon  his  character,  until  he  deemed  noth- 
ing so  desirable  as  to  meet  this  man,  whose  untaught 
wisdcnn  walked  hand  in  hand  with  the  noble  simplicity 
of  his  life.  One  summer  morning,  therefore,  he  took 
passage  by  the  railroad,  and,  in  the  decline  of  the  after- 
noon, alighted  from  the  cars  at  no  great  distance  from 
Ernest's  cottage.   The  great  hotel,  which  had  formerly 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE  99 

been  the  palace  of  Mr.  Gathergold,  was  close  at  hand, 
but  the  poet,  with  his  carpet-bag  on  his  arm,  inquired 
at  once  where  Ernest  dwelt,  and  was  resolved  to  be  ac- 
cepted as  his  guest. 

Approaching  the  door,  he  there  found  the  good  old 
man,  holding  a  volume  in  his  hand,  which  alternately 
he  read,  and  then,  with  a  finger  between  the  leaves, 
looked  lovingly  at  the  Great  Stone  Face. 

"Good-evening,"  said  the  poet.  "Can  you  give  a 
traveler  a  night's  lodging?  " 

"Willingly,"  answered  Ernest;  and  then  he  added, 
smiling,  "Methinks  I  never  saw  the  Great  Stone  Face 
look  so  hospitably  at  a  stranger." 

The  poet  sat  down  on  the  bench  beside  him,  and  he 
and  Ernest  talked  together.  Often  had  the  poet  held 
intercourse  with  the  wittiest  and  the  wisest,  but  never 
before  with  a  man  like  Ernest,  whose  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings gushed  up  with  such  a  natural  freedom,  and  who 
made  great  truths  so  familiar  by  his  simple  utterance 
of  them.  Angels,  as  had  been  so  often  said,  seemed 
to  have  wrought  with  him  at  his  labor  in  the  fields; 
angels  seemed  to  have  sat  with  him  by  the  fireside; 
and,  dwelling  with  angels  as  friend  with  friends,  he  had 
imbibed  the  sublimity  of  their  ideas,  and  imbued  it 
with  the  sweet  and  lowly  charm  of  household  words. 
So  thought  the  poet.  And  Ernest,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  moved  and  agitated  by  the  living  images  which 
the  poet  flung  out  of  his  mind,  and  which  peopled  all 
the  air  above  the  cottage-door  with  shapes  of  beauty, 
both  gay  and  pensive.  The  sympathies  of  these  two 
men  instructed  them  with  a  profounder  sense  than  either 
could  have  attained  alone.  Their  minds  accorded  into 
one  strain,  and  made  delightful  music  which  neither 
of  them  could  have  claimed  as  all  his  own,  nor  distin- 


100  CHARACTER 

guished  his  own  share  from  the  other's.  They  led  one 
another,  as  it  were,  into  a  high  paviUon  of  their  thoughts, 
so  remote,  and  hitherto  so  dim,  that  they  had  never 
entered  it  before,  and  so  beautiful  that  they  desired  to 
be  there  always. 

As  Ernest  listened  to  the  poet,  he  imagined  that  the 
Great  Stone  Face  was  bending  forward  to  listen  too. 
He  gazed  earnestly  into  the  poet's  glowing  eyes. 

"Who  are  you,  my  strangely  gifted  guest.?"  he  said. 
The  poet  laid  his  finger  on  the  volume  that  Ernest 
had  been  reading. 

"You  have  read  these  poems,"  said  he.  "You  know 
me,  then,  —  for  I  wrote  them." 

Again,  and  still  more  earnestly  than  before,  Ernest 
examined  the  poet's  features;  then  turned  towards  the 
Great  Stone  Face;  then  back,  with  an  uncertain  aspect, 
to  his  guest.  But  his  countenance  fell;  he  shook  his 
head,  and  sighed. 

"Wherefore  are  you  sad?"  inquired  the  poet. 
"Because,"  replied  Ernest,  "all  through  life  I  have 
awaited  the  fulfillment  of  a  prophecy;  and,  when  I  read 
these  poems,  I  hoped  that  it  might  be  fulfilled  in  you." 
"You  hoped,"  answered  the  poet,  faintly  smiling, 
"to  find  in  me  the  likeness  of  the  Great  Stone  Face, 
And  you  are  disappointed,  as  formerly  was  Mr.  Gath- 
ergold,  and  Old  Blood-and-Thunder,  and  Old  Stony 
Phiz.  Yes,  Ernest,  it  is  my  doom.  You  must  add  my 
name  to  the  illustrious  three,  and  record  another  fail- 
ure of  your  hopes.  For  —  in  shame  and  sadness  do  I 
speak  it,  Ernest  —  I  am  not  worthy  to  be  typified  by 
yonder  benign  and  majestic  image." 

"And  why  .^  "  asked  Ernest.  He  pointed  to  the  volume. 
"Are  not  those  thoughts  divine.'^" 

"They  have  a  strain  of  the  Divinity,"  replied  the 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE  101 

poet.  "You  can  hear  in  them  the  far-off  echo  of  a  heav- 
enly song.  But  my  life,  dear  Ernest,  has  not  corre- 
sponded with  my  thought.  I  have  had  grand  dreams, 
but  they  have  been  only  dreams,  because  I  have  lived 
—  and  that,  too,  by  my  own  choice  —  among  poor  and 
mean  realities.  Sometimes  even  —  shall  I  dare  to  say 
it?  —  I  lack  faith  in  the  grandeur,  the  beauty,  and  the 
goodness,  which  my  own  works  are  said  to  have  made 
more  evident  in  nature  and  in  human  life.  Why,  then, 
pure  seeker  of  the  good  and  true,  shouldst  thou  hope 
to  find  me,  in  yonder  image  of  the  divine?" 

The  poet  spoke  sadly,  and  his  eyes  were  dim  with 
tears.   So,  likewise,  were  those  of  Ernest. 

At  the  hour  of  sunset,  as  had  long  been  his  frequent 
custom,  Ernest  was  to  discourse  to  an  assemblage  of 
the  neighboring  inhabitants  in  the  open  air.  He  and 
the  poet,  arm  in  arm,  still  talking  together  as  they 
went  along,  proceeded  to  the  spot.  It  was  a  small  nook 
among  the  hills,  with  a  gray  precipice  behind,  the  stern 
front  of  which  was  relieved  by  the  pleasant  foliage  of 
many  creeping  plants  that  made  a  tapestry  for  the 
naked  rock,  by  hanging  their  festoons  from  all  its 
rugged  angles.  At  a  small  elevation  above  the  ground, 
set  in  a  rich  frame-work  of  verdure,  there  appeared  a 
niche,  spacious  enough  to  admit  a  human  figure,  with 
freedom  for  such  gestures  as  spontaneously  accompany 
earnest  thought  and  genuine  emotion.  Into  this  natural 
pulpit  Ernest  ascended,  and  threw  a  look  of  familiar 
kindness  around  upon  his  audience.  They  stood,  or  sat, 
or  reclined  upon  the  grass,  as  seemed  good  to  each, 
with  the  departing  sunshine  falling  obliquely  over  them, 
and  mingling  its  subdued  cheerfulness  with  the  solemn- 
ity of  a  grove  of  ancient  trees,  beneath  and  amid  the 
boughs  of  which  the  golden  rays  were  constrained  to 


102  CHARACTER 

pass.  In  another  direction  was  seen  the  Great  Stone 
Face,  with  the  same  cheer,  combined  with  the  same 
solemnity,  in  its  benignant  aspect. 

Ernest  began  to  speak,  giving  to  the  people  of  what 
was  in  his  heart  and  mind.  His  words  had  power,  be- 
cause they  accorded  with  his  thoughts;  and  his  thoughts 
had  reality  and  depth,  because  they  harmonized  with 
the  life  which  he  had  always  lived.  It  was  not  mere 
breath  that  this  preacher  uttered;  they  were  the  words 
of  life,  because  a  life  of  good  deeds  and  holy  love  was 
melted  into  them.  Pearls,  pure  and  rich,  had  been  dis- 
solved into  this  precious  draught.  The  poet,  as  he  lis- 
tened, felt  that  the  being  and  character  of  Ernest  were 
a  nobler  strain  of  poetry  than  he  had  ever  written.  His 
eyes  glistening  with  tears,  he  gazed  reverentially  at  the 
venerable  man,  and  said  within  himself  that  never  was 
there  an  aspect  so  worthy  of  a  prophet  and  a  sage  as 
that  mild,  sweet,  thoughtful  countenance,  with  the  glory 
of  white  hair  diffused  about  it.  At  a  distance,  but  dis- 
tinctly to  be  seen,  high  up  in  the  golden  light  of  the 
setting  sun,  appeared  the  Great  Stone  Face,  with  hoary 
mists  around  it,  like  the  white  hairs  around  the  brow 
of  Ernest.  Its  look  of  grand  beneficence  seemed  to  em- 
brace the  world. 

At  that  moment,  in  sympathy  with  a  thought  which 
he  was  about  to  utter,  the  face  of  Ernest  assumed  a 
grandeur  of  expression,  so  imbued  with  benevolence, 
that  the  poet,  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  threw  his  arms 
aloft,  and  shouted,  — 

"Behold!  Behold!  Ernest  is  himself  the  hkeness  of 
the  Great  Stone  Face!" 

Then  all  the  people  looked,  and  saw  that  what  the 
deejj-sighted  poet  said  was  true.  The  prophecy  was 
fulfilled.    But  Ernest,  having  finished  what  he  had  to 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE  103 

say,  took  the  poet's  arm,  and  walked  slowly  homeward, 
still  hoping  that  some  wiser  and  better  man  than  him- 
self would  by  and  by  appear,  bearing  a  resemblance  to 
the  Great  Stone  Face. 


MISS  ESTHER'S  GUEST » 

BY  SARAH  ORNE  JEWETT 

The  author  of  this  narrative  is  well  known  as  the  writer  of 
I  iK/^*^^i  England  stories,  in  which  she  presents  a  sympathetic 

Hy^W   V^^ %s^[^Xc^oTtv&ya\  of  the  "characters"  peculiar  to  that 
'  portion  of  the  country.    This  selection  is  illustrative  of  local 

color  and  atmosphere,  but  the  main  interest  is,  after  all,  in 
Miss  Esther  herself,  who  is  in  perfect  harmony  with  her  en- 
vironment. Indeed,  the  element  of  environment  is  an  essential 
part  of  the  characterization.  Miss  Porley's  little  conventionali- 
ties —  pathetic  in  considerable  degree  —  were  the  natural 
results  of  her  straitened  circumstances  and  of  her  Puritan  up- 
bringing. And,  on  the  other  hand,  the  universal  respect  that 
she  enjoyed  in  Daleham  and  the  general  atmosphere  of  her 
cottage  with  its  humble  but  immaculate  "  homelikeness," 
were  of  her  own  creation.  The  portrayal  presents  in  typical 
form  both  the  active  and  the  passive  phases  of  characterization. 

I 

Old  Miss  Porley  put  on  her  silk  shawl,  and  ar- 
ranged it  carefully  over  her  thin  shoulders,  and  pinned 
it  with  a  hand  that  shook  a  little  as  if  she  were  much 
excited.  She  bent  forward  to  examine  the  shawl  in  the 
mahogany-framed  mirror,  for  there  was  a  frayed  and 
tender  spot  in  the  silk  where  she  had  pinned  it  so  many 
years.  The  shawl  was  very  old;  it  had  been  her  mother's, 
and  she  disliked  to  wear  it  too  often,  but  she  never 
could  make  up  her  mind  to  go  out  into  the  street  in 
summer,  as  some  of  her  neighbors  did,  with  nothing 
over  her  shoulders  at  all.    Next  she  put  on  her  bonnet 

1  From  A  Native  of  Winby  and  Other  Tales.  Published  by  Hough- 
ton Mifflin  Company. 


MISS  ESTHER'S  GUEST  105 

and  tried  to  set  it  straight,  allowing  for  a  wave  in  the 
looking-glass  that  made  one  side  of  her  face  appear 
much  longer  than  the  other;  then  she  drew  on  a  pair 
of  well-darned  silk  gloves;  one  had  a  wide  crack  all  the 
way  up  the  back  of  the  hand,  but  they  were  still  neat 
and  decent  for  everyday  wear,  if  she  were  careful  to 
keep  her  left  hand  under  the  edge  of  the  shawl.  She 
had  discussed  the  propriety  of  drawing  the  raveled  silk 
together,  but  a  thick  seam  would  look  very  ugly,  and 
there  was  something  accidental  about  the  crack. 

Then,  after  hesitating  a  few  moments,  she  took  a 
small  piece  of  folded  white  letter-paper  from  the  table 
and  went  out  of  the  house,  locking  the  door  and  trying 
it,  and  stepped  away  bravely  down  the  village  street. 
Everybody  said,  "How  do  you  do.  Miss  Porley?"  or 
"  Good-mornin',  Esther."  Every  one  in  Daleham 
knew  the  good  woman;  she  was  one  of  the  unchang- 
ing persons,  always  to  be  found  in  her  place,  and  al- 
ways pleased  and  friendly  and  ready  to  take  an  inter- 
est in  old  and  young.  She  and  her  mother,  who  had 
early  been  left  a  widow,  had  been  for  many  years  the 
village  tailoresses  and  makers  of  little  boys'  clothes. 
Mrs.  Porley  had  been  dead  three  years,  however,  and 
her  daughter  "Easter,"  as  old  friends  called  our  hero- 
ine, had  lived  quite  alone.  She  was  made  very  sorrow- 
ful by  her  loneliness,  but  she  never  could  be  persuaded 
to  take  anybody  to  board:  she  could  not  bear  to  think 
of  any  one's  taking  her  mother's  place. 

It  was  a  warm  summer  morning,  and  Miss  Porley 
had  not  very  far  to  walk,  but  she  was  still  more  shaky 
and  excited  by  the  time  she  reached  the  First  Church 
parsonage.  She  stood  at  the  gate  undecidedly,  and, 
after  she  pushed  it  open  a  little  way,  she  drew  back 
again,  and  felt  a  curious  beating  at  her  heart  and  a 


106  CHARACTER 

general  reluctance  of  mind  and  body.  At  that  moment 
the  minister's  wife,  a  pleasant  young  woman  with  a 
smiling,  eager  face,  looked  out  of  the  window  and  asked 
the  tremulous  visitor  to  come  in.  Miss  Esther  straight- 
ened herself  and  went  briskly  up  the  walk;  she  was  very 
fond  of  the  minister's  wife,  who  had  only  been  in  Dale- 
ham  a  few  months. 

"Won't  you  take  off  your  shawl?"  asked  Mrs.  Way- 
ton  affectionately;  "I  have  just  been  making  ginger- 
bread, and  you  shall  have  a  piece  as  soon  as  it 
cools." 

"I  don't  know  's  I  ought  to  stop,"  answered  Miss 
Esther,  flushing  quickly.  "I  came  on  business;  I  won't 
keep  you  long." 

"Oh,  please  stay  a  little  while,"  urged  the  hostess. 
"I'll  take  my  sewing,  if  you  don't  mind;  there  are  two 
or  three  things  that  I  want  to  ask  you  about." 

"I've  thought  and  flustered  a  sight  over  taking 
this  step,"  said  good  old  Esther  abruptly.  "I  had  to 
conquer  a  sight  o'  reluctance,  I  must  say.  I've  got. so 
used  to  livin'  by  myself  that  I  sha'n't  know  how  to  con- 
sider another.  But  I  see  I  ain't  got  common  feelin'  for 
others  unless  I  can  set  my  own  comfort  aside  once  in 
a  while.  I've  brought  you  ray  name  as  one  of  those 
that  will  take  one  o'  them  city  folks  that  needs  a  spell 
o'  change.  It  come  straight  home  to  me  how  I  should 
be  feeling  it  by  this  time,  if  my  lot  had  been  cast  in 
one  o'  them  city  garrets  that  the  minister  described 
so  affecting.  If  't  had  n't  been  for  kind  consideration 
somewheres,  mother  an'  me  might  have  sewed  all  them 
pleasant  years  away  in  the  city  that  we  enjoyed  so  in 
our  own  home,  and  our  garding  to  step  right  out  into 
when  our  sides  set  in  to  ache.  And  I  ain't  rich,  but  we 
was  able  to  save  a  little  something,  and  now  I  'm  eatin' 


MISS  ESTHER'S  GUEST  107 

of  it  up  all  alone.  It  come  to  me  I  should  like  to  have 
somebody  take  a  taste  out  o'  mother's  part.  \  Now, 
don't  you  let  'em  send  me  no  rampin'  boys  like  them 
Barnard's  folks  had  come  last  year,  that  vexed  dumb 
creatur's  so;  and  I  don't  know  how  to  cope  with  no 
kind  o'  men-folks  or  strange  girls,  but  I  should  know 
how  to  do  for  a  woman  that's  getting  well  along  in 
years,  an'  has  come  to  feel  kind  o'  spent.  P'r'aps  we 
ain't  no  right  to  pick  an'  choose,  but  I  should  know 
best  how  to  make  that  sort  comfortable  on  'count  of 
doin'  for  mother  and  studying  what  she  preferred." 

Miss  Esther  rdse  with  quaint  formality  and  put  the 
folded  paper,  on  which  she  had  neatly  written  her 
name  and  address,  into  Mrs.  Wayton's  hand.  Mrs, 
Wayton  rose  soberly  to  receive  it,  and  then  they  both 
sat  down  again. 

"  I  'm  sure  that  you  will  feel  more  than  repaid  for  your 
kindness,  dear  Miss  Esther,"  said  the  minister's  wife. 
"I  know  one  of  the  ladies  who  have  charge  of  the  ar- 
rangements for  the  Country  Week,  and  I  will  explain 
as  well  as  I  can  the  kind  of  guest  you  have  in  mind. 
I  quite  envy  her :  I  have  often  thought,  when  I  was  busy 
and  tired,  how  much  I  should  like  to  run  along  the  street 
and  make  you  a  visit  in  your  dear  old-fashioned  little 
house." 

"I  should  be  more  than  pleased  to  have  you,  I'm 
sure,"  said  Miss  Esther,  startled  into  a  bright  smile  and 
forgetting  her  anxiety.  "Come  any  day,  and  take  me 
just  as  I  am.  We  used  to  have  a  good  deal  o'  company 
years  ago,  when  there  was  a  number  of  mother's  folks 
still  livin'  over  Ashfield  way.  Sure  as  we  had  a  pile  o' 
work  on  hand  and  was  hurryin'  for  dear  life  an'  limb, 
a  wagon-load  would  light  down  at  the  front  gate  to  spend 
the  day  an'  have  an  early  tea.  Mother  never  was  one  to 


108  CHARACTER 

get  flustered  same's  I  do  'bout  everj'^thing.  She  was  a 
lovely  cook,  and  she'd  fill  'em  up  an'  cheer  'em,  and  git 
'em  off  early  as  she  could,  an'  then  we'd  be  kind  o' 
waked  up  an'  spirited  ourselves,  and  would  set  up  late 
sewin'  and  talkin'  the  company  over,  an'  I'd  have 
things  saved  up  to  tell  her  that  had  been  said  while  she 
was  out  o'  the  room.  I  make  such  a  towse  over  every- 
thing myself,  but  mother  was  waked  right  up  and  felt 
pleased  an'  smart,  if  anything  unexpected  happened. 
I  miss  her  more  every  year,"  and  Miss  Esther  gave  a 
great  sigh.  "I  s'pose  't  wa'n't  reasonable  to  expect  that 
I  could  have  her  to  help  me  through  with  old  age,  but 
I'm  a  poor  tool  alone." 

"Oh,  no,  you  must  n't  say  that!"  exclaimed  the  min- 
ister's wife.  "Why,  nobody  could  get  along  without 
you.  I  wish  I  had  come  to  Daleham  in  time  to  know 
your  mother  too." 

Miss  Esther  shook  her  head  sadly.  "  She  would  have 
set  everything  by  you  and  Mr.  Wayton.  Now  I  must 
be  getting  back  in  case  I'm  wanted,  but  you  let  'em 
send  me  somebody  right  away,  while  my  bush  beans  is 
so  nice.  An'  if  any  o'  your  little  boy's  clothes  wants 
repairin',  just  give  'em  to  me;  't  will  be  a  real  pleasant 
thing  to  set  a  few  stitches.  Or  the  minister's;  ain't  there 
something  needed  for  him.''" 

Mrs.  Wayton  was  about  to  say  no,  when  she  became 
conscious  of  the  pleading  old  face  before  her.  "I'm 
sure  you  are  most  kind,  dear  friend,"  she  answered, 
"and  I  do  have  a  great  deal  to  do.  I'll  bring  you  two 
or  three  things  to-night  that  are  beyond  my  art,  as  I 
go  to  evening  meeting.  Mr.  Wayton  frayed  out  his 
best  coat  sleeve  yesterday,  and  I  was  disheartened,  for 
we  had  counted  upon  his  not  having  a  new  one  before 
the  fall." 


MISS  ESTHER'S  GUEST  109 

"'T  would  be  mere  play  to  me,"  said  Miss  Esther, 
and  presently  she  went  smiling  down  the  street. 

II 

The  Committee  for  the  Country  Week  in  a  certain 
ward  of  Boston  were  considering  the  long  list  of  chil- 
dren, and  mothers  with  babies,  and  sewing-women, 
who  were  looking  forward,  some  of  them  for  the  first 
time  in  many  years,  to  a  country  holiday.  Some  were 
to  go  as  guests  to  hospitable,  generous  farmhouses  that 
opened  their  doors  willingly  now  and  then  to  tired  city 
people;  for  some  persons  board  could  be  paid. 

The  immediate  arrangements  of  that  time  were  set- 
tled at  last,  except  that  Mrs.  Belton,  the  chairman, 
suddenly  took  a  letter  from  her  pocket.  "I  had  almost 
forgotten  this,"  she  said;  "it  is  another  place  offered 
in  dear  quiet  old  Daleham.  My  friend,  the  minister's 
wife  there,  writes  me  a  word  about  it:  'The  applicant 
desires  especially  an  old  person,  being  used  to  the  care 
of  an  aged  parent  and  sure  of  her  power  of  making  such 
a  one  comfortable,  and  she  would  like  to  have  her  guest 
come  as  soon  as  possible.'  My  friend  asks  me  to  choose 
a  person  of  some  refinement,  —  *  one  who  would  appre- 
ciate the  delicate  simplicity  and  quaint  ways  of  the 
hostess.'" 

Mrs.  Belton  glanced  hurriedly  down  the  page.  "I 
believe  that's  all,"  she  said.  "How  about  that  nice  old 
sewing-woman,  Mrs.  Connolly,  in  Bantry  Street?" 

"Oh,  no!"  some  one  entreated,  looking  up  from  her 
writing.  "Why  is  n't  it  just  the  place  for  my  old  Mr. 
Rill,  the  dear  old  Englishman  who  lives  alone  up  four 
flights  in  Town  Court  and  has  the  bullfinch.  He  used 
to  engrave  seals,  and  his  eyes  gave  out,  and  he  is  so 
thrifty  with  his  own  bit  of  savings  and  an  atom  of  a 


no  CHARACTER 

pension.  Some  one  pays  his  expenses  to  the  country, 
and  this  sounds  Hke  a  phice  he  would  be  sure  to  like. 
I  've  been  watching  for  the  right  chance." 

"Take  it,  then,"  said  the  busy  chairman,  and  there 
was  a  little  more  writing  and  talking,  and  then  the  com- 
mittee meeting  was  over  which  settled  Miss  Esther 
Porley's  fate. 

Ill 

The  journey  to  Daleham  was  a  great  experience  to 
Mr.  Rill.  He  was  a  sensible  old  person,  who  knew  well 
that  he  was  getting  stiffer  and  clumsier  than  need  be 
in  his  garret,  and  that,  as  certain  friends  had  said,  a 
short  time  spent  in  the  country  would  cheer  and  invig- 
orate him.  There  had  been  occasional  propositions  that 
he  should  leave  his  garret  altogether  and  go  to  the 
country  to  live,  or  at  least  to  the  suburbs  of  the  city. 
He  could  not  see  things  close  at  hand  so  well  as  he 
could  take  a  wide  outlook,  and  as  his  outlook  from  the 
one  garret  window  was  a  still  higher  brick  wall  and 
many  chimneys,  he  was  losing  a  great  deal  that  he 
might  have  had.  But  so  long  as  he  was  expected  to  take 
an  interest  in  the  unseen  and  unknown  he  failed  to 
accede  to  any  plans  about  the  country  home,  and  de- 
clared that  he  was  well  enough  in  his  high  abode.  He 
had  lost  a  sister  a  few  years  before  who  had  been  his 
mainstay,  but  with  his  hands  so  well  used  to  delicate 
work  he  had  been  less  bungling  in  his  simple  household 
affairs  than  many  another  man  might  have  been.  But 
he  was  very  lonely  and  was  growing  anxious;  as  he 
was  rattled  along  in  the  train  toward  Daleham  he  held 
the  chirping  bullfinch's  cage  fast  with  both  hands,  and 
said  to  himself  now  and  then,  "This  may  lead  to  some- 
thing; the  country  air  smells  very  good  to  me." 


MISS  ESTHER'S  GUEST  111 

The  Daleham  station  was  not  very  far  out  of  the 
village,  so  that  Miss  Esther  Porley  put  on  her  silk 
shawl  and  bonnet  and  everyday  gloves  just  before  four 
o'clock  that  afternoon,  and  went  to  meet  her  Country 
Week  guest.  Word  had  come  the  day  before  that  the 
person  for  Miss  Porley's  would  start  two  days  in  ad- 
vance of  the  little  company  of  children  and  helpless 
women,  and  since  this  message  had  come  from  the 
parsonage  Miss  Esther  had  worked  diligently,  late 
and  early,  to  have  her  house  in  proper  order.  Whatever 
her  mother  had  liked  was  thought  of  and  provided. 
There  were  going  to  be  rye  shortcakes  for  tea,  and 
there  were  some  sprigs  of  thyme  and  sweet-balm  in  an 
old-fashioned  wine-glass  on  the  keeping-room  table; 
mother  always  said  they  were  so  freshening.  And  Miss 
Esther  had  taken  out  a  little  shoulder-shawl  and  folded 
it  over  the  arm  of  the  rocking-chair  by  the  window 
that  looked  out  into  the  small  garden  where  the  Lon- 
don-pride was  in  full  bloom,  and  the  morning-glories 
had  just  begun  to  climb.  Miss  Esther  was  sixty-four 
herself,  but  still  looked  upon  age  as  well  in  the  distance. 

She  was  always  a  prompt  person,  and  had  some 
minutes  to  wait  at  the  station;  then  the  time  passed 
and  the  train  was  late.  At  last  she  saw  the  smoke  far 
in  the  distance,  and  her  heart  began  to  sink.  Perhaps 
she  would  not  find  it  easy  to  get  on  with  the  old  lady, 
and  —  well  it  was  only  for  a  week,  and  she  had  thought 
it  right  and  best  to  take  such  a  step,  and  now  it  would 
soon  be  over. 

The  train  stopped,  and  there  was  no  old  lady  at  all. 

Miss  Esther  had  stood  far  back  to  get  away  from 
the  smoke  and  roar,  —  she  was  always  as  afraid  of  the 
cars  as  she  could  be,  —  but  as  they  moved  away  she 
took  a  few  steps  forward  to  scan  the  platform.    'T'here 


112  CHARACTER 

was  no  black  bonnet  with  a  worn  lace  veil,  and  no  old 
lady  with  a  burden  of  bundles;  there  were  only  the 
station  master  and  two  or  three  men,  and  an  idle  boy 
or  two,  and  one  clean-faced,  bent  old  man  with  a  bird- 
cage in  one  hand  and  an  old  carpet-bag  in  the  other. 
She  thought  of  the  rye  shortcakes  for  supper  and  all 
that  she  had  done  to  make  her  small  home  pleasant, 
and  her  fire  of  excitement  suddenly  fell  into  asheso 

The  old  man  with  the  bird-cage  suddenly  turned  to- 
ward her.  "Can  you  direct  me  to  Miss  Esther  Por- 
ley's?"  said  he. 

"I  can,"  replied  Miss  Esther,  looking  at  him  with 
curiosity. 

"I  was  directed  to  her  house,"  said  the  pleasant  old 
fellow,  "by  Mrs.  Belton,  of  the  Country  Week  Com- 
mittee. My  eyesight  is  poor.  I  should  be  glad  if  any- 
body would  help  me  to  find  the  place." 

"You  step  this  way  with  me,  sir,"  said  Miss  Esther. 
She  was  afraid  that  the  men  on  the  platform  heard 
every  word  they  said,  but  nobody  took  particular 
notice,  and  off  they  walked  down  the  road  together. 
Miss  Esther  was  enraged  with  the  Country  Week 
Committee. 

"You  were  sent  to  —  Miss  Porley's?"  she  asked 
grimly,  turning  to  look  at  him. 

"I  was,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Rill. 

"I  am  Miss  Porley,  and  I  expected  an  old  lady," 
she  managed  to  say;  and  they  both  stopped  and  looked 
at  each  other  with  apprehension. 

"I  do  declare!"  faltered  the  old  seal-cutter  anx- 
iously. "What  had  I  better  do,  ma'am?  They  most 
certain  give  me  your  name.  Maybe  you  could  recom- 
mend me  somewheres  else,  an'  I  can  get  home  to-morrow 
if  't  ain't  convenient." 


MISS  ESTHER'S  GUEST  113 

They  were  standing  under  a  willow  tree  in  the  shade; 
Mr.  Rill  took  off  his  heavy  hat,  —  it  was  a  silk  hat  of 
by-gone  shape;  a  golden  robin  began  to  sing,  high  in 
the  willow,  and  the  old  bullfinch  twittered  and  chirped 
in  the  cage.  Miss  Esther  heard  some  footsteps  coming 
behind  them  along  the  road.  She  changed  color;  she 
tried  to  remember  that  she  was  a  woman  of  mature 
years  and  considerable  experience. 

"'T  ain't  a  mite  o'  matter,  sir,"  she  said  cheerfully. 
"I  guess  you  '11  find  everything  comfortable  for  you"; 
and  they  turned,  much  relieved,  and  walked  along  to- 
gether. 

"That's  Lawyer  Barstow's  house,"  she  said  calmly, 
a  minute  afterward,  "the  handsomest  place  in  town, 
we  think  'tis";  and  Mr.  Rill  answered  politely  that 
Daleham  was  a  pretty  place;  he  had  not  been  out  of 
the  city  for  so  many  years  that  everything  looked  beau- 
tiful as  a  picture. 

IV 

Miss  Porley  rapidly  recovered  her  composure,  and 
bent  her  energies  to  the  preparing  of  an  early  tea. 
She  showed  her  guest  to  the  snug  bedroom  under  the 
low  gambrel  roof,  and  when  she  apologized  for  his 
having  to  go  upstairs,  he  begged  her  to  remember  that 
it  was  nothing  but  a  step  to  a  man  who  was  used  to 
four  long  flights.  They  were  both  excited  at  finding 
a  proper  nail  for  the  bird-cage  outside  the  window, 
though  Miss  Esther  said  that  she  should  love  to  have 
the  pretty  bird  downstairs  where  they  could  see  it  and 
hear  it  sing.  She  said  to  herself  over  and  over  that  if 
she  could  have  her  long-lost  brother  come  home  from 
sea,  she  should  like  to  have  him  look  and  behave  as 
gentle  and  kind  as  Mr.  Rill.    Somehow  she  found  her- 


I 


114  CHARACTER 

self  singing  a  cheerful  hymn  as  she  mixed  and  stirred 
the  shortcakes.  She  could  not  help  wishing  that  her 
mother  were  there  to  enjoy  this  surprise,  but  it  did 
seem  very  odd,  after  so  many  years,  to  have  a  man 
in  the  house.  It  had  not  happened  for  fifteen  years,  at 
least,  when  they  had  entertained  Deacon  Sparks  and 
wife,  delegates  from  the  neighboring  town  of  East 
Wilby  to  the  County  Conference. 

The  neighbors  did  not  laugh  at  Miss  Esther  openly 
or  cause  her  to  blush  with  self-consciousness,  however 
much  they  may  have  discussed  the  situation  and  smiled 
behind  her  back.  She  took  the  presence  of  her  guest 
w^ith  delighted  simplicity,  and  the  country  week  was 
extended  to  a  fortnight,  and  then  to  a  month.  At  last, 
one  day  Miss  Esther  and  Mr.  Rill  were  seen  on  their 
way  to  the  railroad  station,  with  a  large  bundle  apiece 
beside  the  carpet-bag,  though  some  one  noticed  that 
the  bullfinch  was  left  behind.  Miss  Esther  came  back 
alone,  looking  very  woebegone  and  lonely,  and  if  the 
truth  must  be  known,  she  found  her  house  too  solitary. 
She  looked  into  the  woodhouse,  where  there  was  a  great 
store  of  kindlings,  neatly  piled,  and  her  water-pail  was 
filled  to  the  brim,  her  garden-paths  were  clean  of  weeds 
and  swept,  and  yet  everywhere  she  looked  it  seemed 
more  lonely  than  ever.  She  pinned  on  her  shawl  again 
and  went  along  the  street  to  the  parsonage. 

"  My  old  lady  's  just  gone,"  she  said  to  the  minister's 
wife.  "I  was  so  lonesome  I  could  not  stay  in  the  house." 

"You  found  him  a  very  pleasant  visitor,  did  n't  you. 
Miss  Esther.'"  asked  Mrs.  Wayton,  laughing  a  little. 

"I  did  so;  he  wa'n't  like  other  men,  —  kind  and 
friendly  and  fatherly,  and  never  stayed  round  when 
I  was  occupied,  but  entertained  himself  down  street 
considerable,  an'  was  as  industrious  as  a  bee,  always 


MISS  ESTHER'S  GUEST  115 

asking  me  if  there  wa'n't  something  he  could  do  about 
house.  He  and  a  sister  some  years  older  used  to  keep 
house  together,  and  it  was  her  long  sickness  used  up 
what  they'd  saved,  and  yet  he's  got  a  little  somethin', 
and  there  are  friends  he  used  to  work  for,  jewelers,  a 
big  firm,  that  gives  him  somethin'  regular.  He  's  goin' 
to  see,"  —  and  Miss  Esther  blushed  crimson,  —  "he's 
goin'  to  see  if  they  'd  be  willing  to  pay  it  just  the  same 
if  he  come  to  reside  in  Daleham.  He  thinks  the  air 
agrees  with  him  here." 

"Does  he,  indeed?"  inquired  the  minister's  wife, 
with  deep  interest  and  a  look  of  amusement. 

"Yes'm,"  said  Miss  Esther  simply;  "but  don't  you 
go  an'  say  nothin'  yet.  I  don't  want  folks  to  make  a 
joke  of  it.  Seems  to  me  if  he  does  feel  to  come  back,  and 
remains  of  the  same  mind  he  went  away,  we  might  be 
judicious  to  take  the  step  — " 

"Why,  Miss  Esther!"  exclaimed  the  listener. 

"Not  till  fall,  — not  till  fall,"  said  Miss  Esther 
hastily.  "I  ain't  goin'  to  count  on  it  too  much  any- 
way. I  expect  we  could  get  along;  there's  considerable 
goodness  left  in  me,  and  you  can  always  work  better 
when  you  've  got  somebody  beside  yourself  to  W' ork  for. 
There,  now  I  've  told  you,  I  feel  as  if  I  was  blown  away 
in  a  gale." 

"  Why,  I  don't  know  what  to  say  at  such  a  piece  of 
news!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Way  ton  again. 

"I  don't  know  's  there  's  anything  to  say,"  gravely 
answered  Miss  Esther,  "But  I  did  laugh  just  now 
comin'  in  the  gate  to  think  what  a  twitter  I  got  into 
the  day  I  fetched  you  that  piece  of  paper." 

"Why,  I  must  go  right  and  tell  Mr.  Wayton!"  said 
the  minister's  wife.        ^ 

"Oh,   don't  you.   Mis'   Wayton;   no,   no!"   begged 


116  CHARACTER 

Miss  Esther,  looking  quite  coy  and  girlish.  "I  really 
don't  know  's  it's  quite  settled,  —  it  don't  seem  's  if  it 
could  be.  I  'm  going  to  hear  from  him  in  the  course  of 
a  week.  But  I  suppose  he  thinks  it's  settled;  he's  left 
the  bird."  ^^^ 


THE  PROPRIETOR  OF  THE  CAFE 
SAINT-ANTOINE ' 

BY  HARRY  JAMES  SMITH 

This  little  episode,  complete  in  itself,  is  essentially  a  char- 
acter sketch  of  two  aged  people,  —  the  proprietor  of  the  once 
famous  Cafe  Saint-Antoine  at  Rouen,  and  his  admiring  wife. 
It  is  to  be  noted  that  the  characterization  is  accomplished 
without  direct  exposition.  Individuality  is  developed  by  ac- 
tions, words,  and  the  manner  of  speech  —  especially  the  last. 
The  rebellious  rapping  of  the  old  man's  cane  as  he  comments 
angrily  upon  Torine's  severity  with  the  "aged  ones,"  his  com- 
plaisant smile  as  he  accepts  his  wife's  tribute  to  his  skill,  the 
Gallic  flourish  with  which  he  places  his  masterpiece  in  the 
oven,  the  last  quavering  wish  for  Torine's  return  —  these  are 
but  a  few  examples  of  the  delicate  touches  with  which  the 
author  realistically  sets  his  actors  before  the  reader  as  reveal- 
ing their  own  characters. 

It  is  also  to  be  observed  that  this  method  of  indirect  char- 
acterization possesses  the  distinct  advantage  of  constant  appeal 
to  the  reader's  interpretative  faculties,  and,  in  consequence, 
—  perhaps  unconsciously,  —  the  narrative  holds  the  interest 
more  consistently.  It  is  one  thing  to  tell  us  bluntly  and  directly 
that  the  old  restaurateur  was  still  crafty,  and  that  he  secretly 
rebelled  against  the  domination  of  his  capable  daughter.  The 
thought  is  far  more  effectively  conveyed  by  implication :  — 

"Torine!  Always  Torine!"  —  He  snapped  his  fingers  contemptu- 
ously.    "I'm  not  afraid  of  Torine." 

The  little  woman  drew  a  tremulous  breath  of  admiration.  "Ah,  you 
never  were  a  man  for  being  afraid,  my  Victor."  .  .  . 

A  blush  of  new  life  had  appeared  in  her  sunken  little  cheeks.  Her 
two  hands,  freely  gesticulating,  shook  with  excitement.  The  old  Victor 
agreed  with  her,  rapping  his  stick  on  the  floor.  And  then  a  look  of 
Machiavellian  subtlety  came  into  his  glittering  eye. 

"Attend,  my  wife,"  he  whispered  significantly.   "I  know  some- 

*  Chapter  xm  of  Enchanted  Ground.  Published  by  Houghton 
Mifflin  Company. 


118  CHARACTER 

thing  about  Victorine,  and  she  suspects  that  I  know  it.  How  did  the 
dog  of  Monsieur  Philippe  run  away  yesterday?  He  did  not  get  out  on 
the  street  himself.  Neither  did  the  grocer  boy  let  him  out,  as  Torine 
declare.  —  /  know  how  he  get  out  J" 

The  reader  will  also  find  the  selection  singularly  illustrative 
of  the  pathos  that  often  lies  close  by  the  sources  of  humor. 
This  is  a  quality  more  readily  felt  than  expounded,  and  it 
pervades  this  characterization  of  the  aged  couple  in  their 
abortive  attempt  to  declare  their  independence  against  the 
ravages  of  increasing  years. 

From  young  Victor,  Victorine  and  her  sister-in-law, 
Jenny  La  Bergere,  alias  Shepherd  (or,  as  Victorine 
stoutly  maintained,  Shepherdess),  had  received  the  pres- 
ent of  two  balcony  tickets  to  the  Hippodrome,  for  the 
afternoon  after  Thanksgiving.  Victorine,  who  was  rarely 
to  be  found  outside  her  kitchen,  was  declaring  that  she 
did  not  see  how  she  could  possibly  arrange  to  go  to  that 
place,  leaving  the  old  papa  and  the  old  maman  all  to 
themselves. 

"What  does  my  brother  think,  I  wonder!"  she  de- 
manded. —  "That  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  go  running 
around  after  mermaids  and  trick  horses  and  all  those 
foolish  things.''  If  you  will  tell  me  how  I  can  find  time 
for  that,  I  will  be  thankful." 

Although  she  did  not  deign  to  look  up  from  the  kitchen 
table  which  she  was  vigorously  scrubbing  with  a  pumice- 
stone,  her  challenge  was  presumably  addressed  to  Jenny, 
who  stood  languidly  in  the  doorway,  dressed  in  a  much- 
beruffled  morning-wrapper,  her  red  hair  still  in  crimpers. 
The  two  old  ones  occupied  their  customary  stations, 
the  papa  at  one  side  of  the  range,  his  two  gnarled  hands 
resting  on  a  stout  cane,  his  head  trembling  .slightly,  as 
always,  on  its  pipestem  of  a  neck;  the  maman  Susanne 
deep  in  her  padded  chair  in  the  corner.  The  energetic 
scrape  of  the  pumice-stone  and  the  scrub-brush,  ocular 


PROPRIETOR  OF  THE  CAFfi  SAINT- ANTOINE    119 

proof  of  her  immense  business,  belonged  properly  to  Vic- 
torine's  sentence.  The  muscles  stood  out  on  her  large 
arms;  her  face  was  red  with  exertion  and  defiance. 

For  an  instant  only  she  relaxed  her  labor,  to  rest  her 
hands  on  her  hips  and  accord  a  rapid,  contemptuous 
scrutiny  to  Jenny's  matutinal  attire. 

"For  some  people,"  she  announced,  crisply,  with  a 
little  snort,  "who  have  nothing  to  do  in  the  world  but 
dress  stylish  and  spend  money,  those  Hippodromes  may 
be  all  very  well." 

Between  the  Shepherdess  and  the  thrifty,  indefati- 
gable Victorine  existed  an  ever-smouldering  hostility 
which  sometimes  came  near  to  flame.  The  two  were  well 
matched,  however.  If  Victorine  had  her  contemptuous 
little  snort,  Jenny  had  her  supercilious  little  sniff,  and 
used  it  with  especial  readiness  because  she  knew  that  it 
was  excessively  well-bred. 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  she  added,  with  a  smile  of  superior 
amusement.  "I  know  just  how  hard  it  must  be  for  you 
to  get  off.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  will  not  be  worth  the 
trouble.  I  hope  you  will  feel  perfectly  free  to  give  it  up." 

Victorine  gave  her  a  crushing  look.  "Will  you  tell 
me,"  she  demanded,  "you  who  know  all  about  such 
things,  if  it  would  be  good  manners  for  me  to  give  it  up, 
when  my  poor  brother  has  already  bought  the  ticket 
for  me?" 

To  give  it  up  was,  indeed,  the  last  thought  in  Victor- 
ine's  head.  She  was  consumed  with  curiosity  in  regard 
to  these  wonderful  soaring  ladies,  diving  mermaids,  and 
dancing  flowers  of  which  she  had  heard  so  often,  and 
which  Jenny  authoritatively  declared  to  be  the  swcllest 
thing  that  had  ever  hit  New  York.  But  to  make  admis- 
sion of  that  curiosity  was  by  no  means  Victorine's  way. 

"Oh,  for  that  matter,"  said  Jenny,  with  mordant  gen- 


120  CHARACTER 

tleness,  "  I  'm  sure  Victor  would  n't  mind  if  you  returned 
the  ticket,  my  dear,  and  spent  the  money  for  some 
useful  thing.  He  is  very  sweet  in  those  ways.  Though 
I  can't  tell  you  how  I'd  hate  to  have  to  go  without 
you." 

Victorine  clicked  her  teeth  together,  and  seemed  to 
speak  without  so  much  as  opening  her  mouth.  "At  half- 
past  one  I  shall  be  ready,  my  dear.  Voila!" 

The  scrubbing  was  resumed  so  vindictively  that 
Jenny 's  final  retort  —  if  she  made  one:  she  probably  did 
—  was  quite  lost  in  the  uproar.  At  last,  however,  the  la- 
bor of  cleanliness  was  completed,  and  a  strange  quiet 
supervened.  Jenny  had  disappeared.  Victorine's  tem- 
per had  evidently  worked  itself  out. 

Turning  solicitously  to  her  father  from  the  sink,  over 
which  she  had  just  replaced  her  housewife's  battery,  she 
inquired,  — 

"  You  will  be  comfortable,  mon  pere?  Since  it  appears 
to  be  necessary  for  me  to  go  to  that  Hippodrome  of 
theirs,  you  promise  that  you  will  be  good  —  tres,  tres 
sage  —  that  you  will  not  go  to  the  corner?  " 

The  old  man  nodded  with  the  most  irreproachable 
docility. 

"Oui,  ma  Torine,"  he  replied,  reassuringly.  "You 
may  trust  the  old  papa.   He  will  not  do  anything." 

"Good,"  she  commented.  "And  is  the  little  mother 
going  to  be  sage,  too?  She  will  not  get  to  coughing  — 
no?  —  while  her  Torine  is  away?" 

"Non,  ma  Torine,"  came  the  thin,  faithful  response. 
"You  may  trust  the  old  maman.  She  is  going  to  be 
good,  good." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Mademoiselle,  with  a  sigh  of  seem- 
ing reluctance,  "well,  then,  I  suppose  it  will  be  all  right 
if  I  let  them  persuade  me  to  go,  since  Victor  wishes  it." 


PROPRIETOR  OF  THE  CAFfi  SAINT-ANTOINE    121 

"Yes,  indeed,  ma  Torine,"  urged  the  old  man.  "You 
must  go  for  Victor's  sake.  We  promise  to  be  sage  —  eh, 
Susanne? " 

"Victorine  can  trust  the  old  ones,"  agreed  the  Nor- 
man coiffe.   "They  are  going  to  be  sage,  sage." 

Promptly,  therefore,  at  the  appointed  moment.  Made- 
moiselle was  in  readiness.  She  entered  the  kitchen  mag- 
nificent, incredible,  in  a  black  suit  that  seemed  on  the 
point  of  bursting  for  the  extreme  snugness  of  its  fit,  and 
a  broad  hat  towering  with  white  plumes. 

The  old  man  rubbed  his  hands  together  with  paternal 
admiration. 

"You  are  beautiful,  my  Victorine!  Eh,  Susanne,  are 
not  you  proud  to  be  the  mother  of  our  Torine  there?" 

"She  could  have  five  husbands  any  day  if  she  wanted 
them,"  chimed  in  the  little  creature. 

Victorine  gave  a  smiling  grunt,  as  she  struggled  with 
a  refractory  glove.  "I  know  too  much  about  hus- 
bands," she  said. 

"There  is  plenty  time  yet,"  put  in  the  papa,  know- 
ingly. "But,  however,  you  are  going  to  enjoy  yourself 
well  this  afternoon." 

"Oh,  as  for  that,"  conceded  Victorine  doubtfully,  "I 
do  not  care  much  about  all  those  absurd  things  at  the 
Hippodrome.  But  Victor  will  be  pleased,  I  hope.  I  am 
doing  it  for  him.  —  You  may  light  the  gas,  father,  at 
half-past  four." 

"Very  well,  my  Torine.  At  half -past  four.  You  can 
trust  us  to  be  sage." 

In  another  minute  the  ancient  pair  heard  the  shutting 
of  the  front  door.   They  were  alone. 

"Eh  bien,"  observed  old  Victor,  taking  a  little  pinch 
of  snufT.  "The  young  people  must  have  their  good  times, 
I  suppose.  One  of  these  days  the  good  times  will  come  to 


122  CHARACTER 

an  end.  They  will  grow  feeble  and  old  and  have  to  sit 
beside  the  stove  all  day." 

"Yes,  my  Victor,"  sighed  Susanne.  "Life  is  not  gay. 
For  a  little  time  there  is  singing  and  happiness;  but  not 
for  long.    Well,  one  must  bear  it  with  patience." 

The  papa  Victor  gave  a  rebellious  rap  of  his  cane. 
"But  for  all  that,"  he  remarked,  "it  seems  to  me  that 
Torine  is  a  little  too  severe  with  the  old  ones.  Why  does 
she  refuse  to  let  me  get  a  little  glass  sometimes  at  the 
corner.'*  Why,  I  say?  —  Even  at  my  age  I  might  have  a 
little  pleasure  in  that." 

"For  one  thing,  my  Victor,  she  does  not  like  to  have 
you  spend  money." 

"A  little  glass  —  that  is  only  ten  sous." 

"Yes,  my  dear  man,  if  it  would  only  be  one  little  glass. 
But  always  where  there  is  one,  there  is  two,  sometimes 
three.    That  costs." 

"Nevertheless,  Torine  is  too  severe,"  reiterated  the 
papa  Victor,  in  an  injured  voice.  "She  forget  the  days 
of  the  Cafe  Antoine.  She  think  she  owe  nothing  to  her 
poor  old  father." 

Susanne,  perceiving  that  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by 
argument,  only  sighed  a  little  ghost  of  a  sigh,  and  con- 
tinued her  knitting. 

"But  an  idea  has  come  to  me,"  pursued  the  octoge- 
narian, darkly.  "I  am  thinking  about  it  since  two  days. 
Surely  there  can  be  no  harm  in  amusing  ourselves  a 
little  when  they  have  gone  off  like  that  and  left  us  all 
alone." 

"If  Torine  would  not  object,"  put  in  Susanne,  tim- 
idly. 

"Torine!  Always  Torine!"  —  He  snapped  his  fingers 
contemptuously.   "I  am  not  afraid  of  Torine." 

The  little  woman  drew  a  tremulous  breath  of  admira- 


PROPRIETOR  OF  THE  CAFE  SAINT-ANTOINE    123 

tion.  "Ah,  you  never  were  a  man  for  being  afraid,  my 
Victor." 

The  old  papa  smiled  complaisantly.  "No,"  he  agreed. 
"I  do  not  believe  anybody  ever  accused  the  proprietor 
of  the  Cafe  Antoine  of  being  timid;  and  all  Rouen  knew 
the  Cafe  Antoine.  —  Besides,  in  her  heart,  Torine  would 
be  glad.   She  would  only  pretend  to  be  angry." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  mon  ami?  "  inquired  Susanne, 
scenting  evil. 

The  old  man  gave  a  confident  toss  to  his  head.  "She 
does  not  like  to  have  him  out  there,"  he  said,  with  a  ges- 
ture of  a  long  bony  finger  toward  the  yard.  "He  will 
never  fly,  that  is  certain.  His  wing  is  not  going  to  be 
strong  again.  He  only  eats  and  eats  and  grows  fat,  — 
oh,  my  Susanne,  so  fat!  so  fat!  —  a  veritable  marvel!" 

He  produced  a  curiously  succulent  sound  between  his 
scanty  teeth.  A  first  clear  hint  of  the  devilish  design 
flashed  into  the  old  maman's  brain. 

"The  pigeon!"  she  gasped.  "Oh,  my  friend,  you 
would  never  dare!" 

"No?"  — The  papa  Victor  drew  himself  up  imperi- 
ally. "Who  says  I  would  not  dare?  —  Listen,  my  Su- 
sanne, do  you  remember  the  famous  pigeon-pasties  of 
the  Cafe  Antoine?  Do  you  remember  the  universal  ad- 
miration they  evoked?  Do  you  remember  how  Victor 
Napoleon  La  Bergere,  who  is  now  an  old,  old  man,  hud- 
dling by  the  stove  with  his  cane,  used  to  create  them  in 
that  fine  little  cuisine  behind  the  restaurant?  Ah,  those 
were  the  good  days.    There  was  glory  then!" 

"Glory!  Ah,  my  man!"  exchiinied  Susanne,  with  au 
outburst  of  febrile  enthusiasm.  "In  all  Rouen  one  used 
to  hear,  'Oh,  the  wonderful  pates  de  pigeon  of  the  Cafe 
Antoine!  Oh,  the  lovely  sauces  of  the  Cafe  Antoine! 
Oh,  the  fried  potatoes,  so  delicate,  so  tender,  of  the 


124  CHARACTER 

Cafe  Antoine!'  No  one  talked  in  Rouen  of  anything 
else!" 

A  flush  of  new  life  had  appeared  in  her  sunken  little 
cheeks.  Her  two  hands,  freely  gesticulating,  shook  with 
excitement.  The  old  Victor  agreed  with  her,  rapping  his 
stick  on  the  floor.  And  then  a  look  of  Machiavellian 
subtlety  came  into  his  glittering  eyes. 

"Attend,  my  wife,"  he  whispered,  significantly.  "I 
know  something  about  Victorine,  and  she  suspects  that 
I  know  it.  —  How  did  the  dog  of  Monsieur  Philippe  run 
away  yesterday?  He  did  not  get  out  on  the  street  him- 
self. Neither  did  the  grocer  boy  let  him  out,  as  Torine 
declare.  —  /  know  how  he  get  out  1 " 

She  gazed  at  him  with  eyes  wide-set,  comprehending, 
reasoning. 

"Go,  my  Victor,"  she  directed,  with  sudden  resolu- 
tion. "Take  the  pigeon.  Yes,  yes,  why  should  we  not 
amuse  ourselves  a  little.''  We  will  tell  Monsieur  Philippe 
that  it  flew  away  while  you  were  feeding  it." 

"That  is  what  I  am  going  to  do,"  announced  the  hero 
of  the  Cafe  Antoine.  "We  will  have  once  more  a  little 
pdte  —  just  me  and  you,  hein  ?  —  Wait,  I  am  going  for 
him.  Will  you  get  ready  the  little  black  kettle,  my  dear? 
We  will  boil  him  for  fifteen  minute  in  water  with  a  small 
little  onion  and  some  salt." 

It  was  a  labor  of  but  a  half-hour  to  prepare  Columba 
for  the  pot.  Susanne  sat  close  by  during  the  entire  pro- 
cess, proudly,  eagerly  watching,  until  the  last  joint  had 
been  separated  by  the  old  man's  skilled  fingers,  and  put 
over  to  seethe.  Next  the  paste  must  be  mixed,  and 
sauce  prepared.  With  excited,  fevered  devotion  she  re- 
sponded to  his  every  request,  hovering  about  like  a  timid 
winter  bird.  She  fetched  flour  and  butter,  fetched  stock, 
whole  cloves,  mace,  cayenne,  bay  leaves,  and  a  precious 


PROPRIETOR  OF  THE  CAFfi  SAINT-ANTOINE    125 

dark  little  bottle  of  herb-extract  that  had  come  from 
Rouen  twenty  years  ago;  she  buttered  a  tiny  baking- 
dish,  found  a  piece  of  brown  paper  to  cover  the  pie,  and 
stood  with  raised,  tremulous  hands  beside  the  old  Victor 
while  the  pdte  was  compounded.  He  was  a  general;  she 
his  devoted  adjutant. 

"Ah,  my  Victor,  you  are  a  marvel  of  men,"  she  pro- 
tested, while  her  sunken  eyes  glowed  with  adoration. 
"One  would  believe  you  were  not  a  day  older  than  thirty 
to  see  the  address  with  which  yoti  work.  It  is  the  Cafe 
Antoine  once  more  alive!" 

The  old  man  gave  a  deprecatory  shrug.  "Oh,  this  is 
nothing,"  he  asserted,  magnificently.  "This  is  the  sim- 
plest of  all  my  creations.  However,  it  is  something,  my 
friend,  to  be  free  once  more.  Torine  will  never  remember 
that  her  father  is  an  artist  supreme.  She  believe  he  is 
the  same  as  any  old  man." 

"Torine  forget  the  Cafe  Antoine,"  put  in  Susanne, 
antiphonally. 

"But  it  is  going  to  be  all  different  in  the  future,"  de- 
clared the  papa  Victor,  defiantly.  "  After  this  I  am  going 
to  have  my  own  way  whenever  I  want  it.  It  will  be, 
'Torine,  this!'  —  'Torine,  that!'  She  will  soon  learn 
that  things  have  changed." 

There  were  two  bright  red  spots  at  his  cheek-bones; 
his  eyes  flashed  with  authority ;  his  voice  had  lost  its  old- 
time  tremolo,  and  was  once  more  that  of  a  commander 
of  men's  stomachs.  The  years  had  rolled  from  him 
like  magic.  Even  Susanne  seemed  a  quarter-century 
younger. 

"Voila!"  he  announced,  grandly,  as  he  put  the  last 
decorative  touch  to  the  crimped  edge  of  the  pasty. 
"Voila!    It  is  done!  —  Open  the  oven!" 

The  oven  was  opened.  In  went  the  masterpiece  of  the 


126  CHARACTER 

Cafe  Antoine.  Click  shut  the  heavy  door.  The  deed  was 
accompHshed.  The  inspiration  had  come  to  its  fruition. 
The  genius  of  the  papa  Victor,  evoked  from  its  long  slum- 
ber, had  been  vindicated. 

"And  now,  my  man,"  said  Susanne,  with  hectic  brisk- 
ness, "  we  will  have  a  little  wee  rest  for  one  minute  in  our 
chairs;  and  then  we  will  gather  up  the  cooking  things 
and  put  them  away.  Later  we  wull  eat  the  pie." 

"Yes,"  said  the  papa  Victor.  "A  minute  or  two  of 
rest;  and  then  we  will  finish." 

They  resumed  their  accustomed  places;  and  a  silence 
fell  upon  the  room,  broken  only  by  the  ticking  of  the 
clock.  The  afternoon  was  slipping  away.  Already  the 
basement  kitchen  had  grown  a  little  dusky.  A  great 
fatigue  began  to  envelop  the  ex-proprietor  of  the  Cafe 
Antoine.  His  limbs,  that  so  short  a  time  before  had 
thrilled  with  imperial  energy,  felt  like  dead  things.  He 
wondered  how  he  could  ever  get  up  from  his  chair  again. 

The  fire  began  to  glow  with  a  ruddier  gleam  through 
the  little  chinks  of  the  stove.  The  kettle  hummed  with 
a  soft,  insistent  monotony.  And  still  the  clock  ticked  on. 
The  shadows  were  ranked  deep  in  the  corners  of  the 
room.  It  was  almost  time  to  light  the  gas.  The  dishes 
and  utensils  were  still  lying  in  disorder  on  the  table.  The 
thought  suddenly  came  to  him  that  before  very,  very 
long  Victorine  would  be  coming  home;  and  with  the 
thought  a  pall  of  dread  fell  upon  his  spirit.  Victorine 
would  be  oh,  so  angry!  She  would  scold  him.  Perhaps 
she  would  refuse  to  give  him  his  little  glass  of  cognac 
before  he  went  to  bed! 

Oh,  they  must  clear  away  the  dishes  at  once.  Vic- 
torine must  not  find  things  in  disorder. 

"Susanne,"  he  called  feebly.  "We  have  had  our  rest 
now,  hein?  We  must  be  putting  away  the  things." 


PROPRIETOR  OF  THE  CAFE  SAINT-ANTOINE    127 

For  the  space  of  several  seconds  he  waited  for  an 
answer.  It  was  very  dark  in  the  corner  where  Susanne 
was  sitting.     He  could  not  see  her. 

"Susanne,"  he  called  again.  "Do  you  hear?  We 
must  be  putting  away  the  things  now." 

The  reply  came  so  faint  as  scarcely  to  be  audible. 
"Yes,  my  friend.  We  must  put  away  the  things  at  once, 
- —  at  once,  —  in  just  a  little  minute." 

But  neither  made  any  movement  to  get  up.  The  room 
grew  darker.  It  was  night  in  the  corners.  Victorine's 
white  apron  hanging  on  the  back  of  the  door  looked 
like  a  ghostly  visitant,  come  upon  them  unawares. 
The  shadows  were  full  of  things  that  got  on  one's 
nerves. 

"Susanne,"  he  said,  finally,  in  a  strange,  muffled  voice 
that  tried  to  be  resolute.  "  It  is  time  to  light  the  gas  now. 
We  must  be  busying  ourselves.  The  dishes  must  be 
washed  and  put  away  now." 

"Yes,  my  Victor,"  came  the  response,  scarcely  louder 
than  the  whirr  of  an  insect's  wing.  "We  must  not  sit 
here  any  longer  like  this.  We  have  had  our  rest." 

There  was  a  little  break  in  her  words;  while  the  clock 
ticked  tyrannically. 

"Ah,  my  friend,"  she  concluded.  "Life  is  very  hard. 
It  is  not  an  easy  thing  for  the  poor  old  ones." 

The  room  was  all  dark  now,  save  for  the  mocking  little 
chinks  of  the  fire.  The  pate  was  surely  burned  to  a  crisp. 
Even  the  kettle  was  beginning  to  boil  away,  as  you  could 
tell  by  its  eager,  hoarse  song.  Decidedly  old  age  had 
once  more  claimed  its  victims. 

The  maman  Susanne  sat  huddled  among  the  cushions 
of  her  deep  chair,  gazing  at  nothing  out  of  vague,  fright- 
ened eyes.  She  began  to  feel  cold.  She  knew  that  soon 
she  would  begin  to  cough.    Ah,  life  was  not  gay  at  all, 


128  CHARACTER 

just  now.  She  wished  they  would  come  and  put  her  to 
bed.     She  was  very  tired. 

"Why  does  not  our  Victorine  come  back?"  she  mur- 
mured, feebly,  at  last.  "I  am  getting  frightened,  it  is  so 
dark.    And  I  am  very  tired." 

"Yes,"  came  the  papa's  voice,  quaveringly,  through 
the  darkness.  "I  wish  she  would  come.  I  wish  she 
would  come  and  light  the  gas.  I  do  not  like  to  sit  here 
so  long,  just  us  two,  in  the  dark.  It  is  not  kind  to  leave 
the  old  ones  so  long  without  attention." 


A   LIBERAL  EDUCATION  ^ 

BY  ANTHONY  HOPE  HAWKINS  ("ANTHONY  HOPE") 

Dialogue  is  one  of  the  various  methods  of  indirect  char- 
acterization, —  whereby  the  reader  is  enabled  to  gain  knowl- 
edge of  personahty  through  imphcation  rather  than  by  (Hrect 
exposition.  This  is  sometimes  known  as  the  dramatic  method, 
as  the  drama,  from  the  very  nature  of  the  conditions,  renders 
direct  exposition  impossible  and  proceeds  by  means  of  conver- 
sation between  the  actors.  Excellent  illustration  is  furnished 
by  the  Dolly  Dialogues,  from  which  the  selection  is  taken. 
After  reading  A  Liberal  Education  one  is  in  possession  of  a  very 
definite  picture  of  Miss  Dolly  Foster  and  of  Mr.  Carter,  yet 
it  is  through  the  process  of  inference,  by  "reading  between 
the  lines,"  that  the  impression  is  secured. 

"There's  ingratitude  for  you!"  Miss  Dolly  Foster 
exclaimed  suddenly. 

"Where?"  I  asked,  rousing  myself  from  meditation. 

She  pointed  at  a  young  man  who  had  just  passed 
where  we  sat.  He  was  dressed  very  smartly,  and  was 
walking  with  a  lady  attired  in  the  height  of  the  fashion. 

"I  made  that  man,"  said  Dolly,  "and  now  he  cuts 
me  dead  before  the  whole  of  the  Row !  It 's  atrocious. 
Why,  but  for  me,  do  you  suppose  he  'd  be  at  this  moment 
engaged  to  three  thousand  a  year  and  —  and  the  plain- 
est girl  in  London?  " 

"Not  that,"  I  pleaded;  "think  of—" 

"Well,  very  plain,  anyhow.  I  was  quite  ready  to  bow 
to  him.   I  almost  did." 

"In  fact,  you  did!" 

'  From  The  Dolly  Dialogues.  Printed  by  permission  of  Henry  Holt 
&Co. 


130  CHARACTER 

"I  did  n't.   I  declare  I  did  n't." 

"Oh,  well,  you  did  n't  then.   It  only  looked  like  it." 

"I  met  him,"  said  Miss  Dolly,  "three  years  ago.  At 
that  time  he  was  — -  oh,  quite  unpresentable.  He  was 
everything  he  should  n't  be.  He  was  a  teetotaler,  you 
know,  and  he  did  n't  smoke,  and  he  was  always  going 
to  concerts.  Oh,  and  he  wore  his  hair  long,  and  his 
trousers  short,  and  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head.  And 
his  umbrella  — " 

"Where  did  he  wear  that?" 

"He  carried  that,  Mr.  Carter.  Don't  be  silly!  Carried 
it  unrolled,  you  know,  and  generally  a  paper  parcel  in 
the  other  hand;  and  he  had  spectacles,  too." 

"He  has  certainly  changed  outwardly,  at  least." 

"Yes,  I  know;  well,  I  did  that.  I  took  him  in  hand, 
and  I  just  taught  him,  and  now  — !" 

"Yes,  I  know  that.  But  how  did  you  teach  him? 
Give  him  Saturday  evening  lectures,  or  what?" 

"Oh,  every-evening  lectures,  and  most-morning 
walks.  And  I  taught  him  to  dance,  and  I  broke  his 
wretched  fiddle  with  my  own  hands!" 

"What  very  arbitrary  distinctions  you  draw!" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  I  do  like  a  man  to  be 
smart,  anyhow.  Don't  you,  Mr.  Carter?  You  're  not  so 
smart  as  you  might  be.  Now,  shall  I  take  you  in  hand?  " 
And  she  smiled  upon  me. 

"Let's  hear  your  method.  What  did  you  do  to 
him?" 

"To  Phil  Meadows?  Oh,  nothing.  I  just  slipped  in  a 
remark  here  and  there,  whenever  he  talked  nonsense. 
I  used  to  speak  just  at  the  right  time,  you  know." 

"But  how  had  your  words  such  influence,  Miss 
Foster?  " 

"Oh,  well,  you  know,  Mr.  Carter,  I  made  it  a  condi- 


A  LIBERAL  EDUCATION  131 

iion  that  he  should  do  just  what  I  wanted  in  little  things 
like  that.  Did  he  think  I  was  going  to  walk  about  with 
a  man  carrying  a  brown-paper  parcel  —  as  if  we  had 
been  to  the  shop  for  a  pound  of  tea?" 

"Still,  I  don't  see  why  he  should  alter  all  his  —  " 

"Oh,  you  are  stupid!  Of  course,  he  liked  me,  you 
know." 

"Oh,  did  he?   I  see." 

"You  seem  to  think  that  very  funny." 

"  Not  that  he  did  —  but  that,  apparently,  he  does  n't." 

"  Well,  you  got  out  of  that  rather  neatly  —  for  you. 
No,  he  does  n't  now.  You  see,  he  misunderstood  my 
motive.  He  thought  —  well,  I  do  believe  he  thought 
I  cared  for  him,  you  know.   Of  course,  I  did  n't." 

"Not  a  bit?" 

"Just  as  a  friend  —  and  a  pupil,  you  know.  And  when 
he'd  had  his  hair  cut  and  bought  a  frock-coat  (fancy! 
he'd  never  had  one!),  he  looked  quite  nice.  He  has  nice 
eyes.   Did  you  notice  them?" 

"Lord,  no!" 

"Well,  you're  so  unobservant." 

"Oh,  not  always.   I've  observed  that  your  —  " 

"Please  don't!   It's  no  use,  is  it?" 

I  looked  very  unhappy.  There  is  an  understanding 
that  I  am  very  unhappy  since  Miss  Foster's  engagement 
to  the  Earl  of  Mickleham  was  announced. 

"What  was  I  saying  before  —  before  you  —  you 
know  —  oh,  about  Phil  Meadows,  of  course.  I  did 
like  him  very  much,  you  know,  or  I  should  n't  have 
taken  all  that  trouble.  Why,  his  own  mother  thanked 
me!" 

"I  have  no  more  to  say,"  said  I. 

"But  she  wrote  me  a  horrid  letter  afterwards." 

"Y^ou're  so  very  elliptical." 


132  CHARACTER 

"So  very  what,  Mr.  Carter?" 
"You  leave  so  much  out,  I  mean.   After  what?" 
"Why,  after  I  sent  him  away.    Didn't  I  tell  you? 
Oh,  we  had  the  most  awful  scene.  He  raved,  Mr.  Carter. 
He  called  me  the  most  horrid  names,  and  — " 
"Tore  his  hair?" 

"It  was  n't  long  enough  to  get  hold  of,"  she  tittered. 
"But  don't  laugh.  It  was  really  dreadful.  And  so  unjust! 
And  then,  next  day,  when  I  thought  it  was  comfortably 
over,  you  know,  he  came  back,  and  —  and  apologized, 
and  called  himself  the  most  awful  names,  and  —  well, 
that  was  really  worse." 

"What  did  the  fellow  complain  of?"  I  asked  in  won- 
dering tones. 

"Oh,  he  said  I'd  destroyed  his  faith  in  women,  you 
know,  and  that  I  'd  led  him  on,  and  that  I  was  —  well, 
he  was  very  rude,  indeed.  And  he  went  on  writing  me 
letters  like  that  for  a  whole  year!  It  made  me  quite 
uncomfortable." 

"  But  he  did  n't  go  back  to  short  trousers  and  a  fiddle, 
did  he?  "  I  asked  anxiously. 

"  Oh,  no.  But  he  forgot  all  he  owed  me,  and  he 
told  me  that  his  heart  was  dead,  and  that  he  should 
never  love  any  one  again." 

"But  he's  going  to  marry  that  girl." 
"Oh,  he  doesn't  care  about  her,"  said  Miss  Dolly, 
reassuringly.    "It's  the  money,  you  know.    He  had  n't 
a  farthing  of  his  own.  Now  he'll  be  set  up  for  life." 
"And  it's  all  due  to  you!"  said  I,  admiringly. 
"Well,  it  is,  really." 

"I  don't  call  her  such  a  bad-looking  girl,  though." 
(I  had  n't  seen  her  face.) 

"Mr.  Carter!   She's  hideous!" 
I  dropped  that  subject. 


A  LIBERAL  EDUCATION  133 

"And  now,"  said  Miss  Dolly  again,  "he  cuts  me 
dead!" 

"It  is  the  height  of  ingratitude.  Why,  to  love  you 
was  a  liberal  education!" 

"Yes,  was  n't  it?  How  nicely  you  put  that!  'A  liberal 
education!'  I  shall  tell  Archie."  (Archie  is  Lord  Mickle- 
ham.) 

"What,  about  Phil  Meadows?" 

"Goodness  me,  no,  Mr.  Carter.  Just  what  you  said, 
you  know." 

"But  why  not  tell  Mickleham  about  Phil  Meadows?" 
I  urged.    "It's  all  to  your  credit,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  men  are  so  foolish.  You  see,  Archie 
thinks—" 

"Of  course  he  does." 

"You  might  let  me  finish." 

"Archie  thinks  you  were  never  in  love  before." 

"Yes,  he  does.  Well,  of  course,  I  was  n't  in  love  with 
Phil—" 

"Not  a  little  bit?" 

"Oh,  well— " 

"Nor  with  any  one  else?" 

Miss  Dolly  prodded  the  path  with  her  parasol. 

"Nor  with  any  one  else?"  I  asked  again. 

Miss  Dolly  looked  for  an  instant  in  my  direction. 

"Nor  with  any  one  else?"  said  I. 

Miss  Dolly  looked  straight  in  front  of  her. 

"Nor  with  — "I  began. 

"Hullo,  old  chappie,  where  did  you  spring  from?" 

"Why,  Archie!"  cried  Miss  Dolly. 

"Oh,  how  are  you,  Mickleham,  old  man?  Take  this 
seat;  I  'm  just  off  —  just  off.  Yes,  I  was,  upon  my  honor 
—  got  to  meet  a  man  at  the  club.  Good-bj'e,  Miss  Foster. 
Jove!   I'm  late!" 


134  CHARACTER 

And  as  I  went  I  heard  Miss  Dolly  say,  "I  thought 
you  were  never  coming,  Archie,  dear!" 

Well,  she  did  n't  think  he  was  coming  just  then. 
No  more  did  I. 


THE    OUTCASTS   OF   POKER   FLAT» 

BRET  HARTE 

The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat  presents  evident  exemplificatiom 
of  the  three  fundamentals  of  narrative  writing,  —  setting, 
characterization,  and  plot,  —  but  the  ultimate  value  of  the 
story  lies  in  its  realistic  portrayal  of  human  emotion;  it  is 
therefore,  essentially  a  story  of  character.  In  the  evolution 
of  John  Oakhurst's  true  and  better  self,  in  the  revelation  of 
the  Duchess's  underlying  womanhood,  in  the  characterization 
of  all  the  actors,  one  notes  the  difference  between  the  two  senses 
in  which  the  word  "character"  is  used:  that  of  personage  and 
personality.  Uncle  Billy,  for  example,  is  introduced  as  a  "sus- 
pected sluice-robber  and  confirmed  drunkard."  To  tlais  ex- 
tent he  is  a  mere  personage,  nothing  more  than  an  actor  in 
the  drama.  He  is  in  no  sense  individualized,  differentiated 
from  other  similar  rascals.  But  when  Oakhurst  awakens  on 
the  morning  after  Tom  and  Piney's  arrival  to  find  the  little 
encampment  threatened  with  a  blizzard,  and  to  discover  that 
the  villainous  Uncle  Billy  has  made  off  during  the  night  with 
the  mules,  —  their  sole  hope  of  escape,  —  then  the  suspected 
sluice-robber  and  confirmed  drunkard  ceases  to  be  but  one 
of  a  class:  he  is  now  essentially  himself,  one  who,  to  save  his 
own  worthless  skin,  will  deprive  others  of  their  single  chance 
for  life.  In  this  sense  Uncle  Billy  is  raised  from  the  level  of  a 
personage,  a  mere  dramatis  persona,  to  that  of  a  personality. 
Similarly  the  other  characters  of  the  story  are  developed,  each 
with  particular  reference  to  the  particular  trait  that  consti- 
tutes what  we  term  individuality,  or  the  personal  equation. 

The  author  sets  forth  the  various  characters  of  the  story 
mainly  by  the  indirect  method :  that  is,  by  word  and  action. 
In  the  case  of  Oakhurst,  —  to  take  one  instance,  —  beyond 
a  brief  paragraph  and  an  occasional  sentence  here  and  there, 
one  finds  little  direct  exposition  of  the  gambler's  character; 

1  From  the  Complete  Works  of  Bret  Ilarte.  Published  by  Houghton 
Mifflin  Company. 


136  CHARACTER 

yet  at  the  close  of  the  story  the  personality  of  John  Oakhurst  is 
clearly  and  distinctly  defined.  The  kick  administered  to  Uncle 
Billy  when,  upon  Tom  and  Piney's  arrival,  that  degenerate 
is  about  to  give  expression  to  thoughts  that  were  better 
left  unspoken,  the  parting  kiss  to  the  Duchess,  the  quiet  de- 
parture from  the  camp  when  food  is  running  low,  and  the 
final  act  of  the  dissipated  life,  —  these  and  other  external  in- 
dications make  it  easy  for  the  reader  to  draw  definite  infer- 
ences regarding  him  "who  was  at  once  the  strongest  and  yet 
the  weakest  of  the  outcasts  of  Poker  Flat." 

The  reader  will  observe  also  the  generally  objective  atti- 
tude that  the  author  assumes  toward  his  narrative.  In  the 
closing  sentence  characterizing  Oakhurst,  quoted  at  the  end 
of  the  preceding  paragraph,  there  is,  indeed,  a  suggestion  of  the 
personal  attitude  toward  the  gambler's  heroism;  yet  passages 
of  this  character  are  infrequent,  and  the  story  is  presented 
from  the  impersonal  point  of  view,  without  sentiment,  with- 
out expressed  disapproval  or  approval  of  the  various  person- 
ages as  they  perform  their  respective  parts  in  the  action. 

As  Mr.  John  Oakhurst,  gambler,  stepped  into  the 
main  street  of  Poker  Flat  on  the  morning  of  the  23d  of 
November,  1850,  he  was  conscious  of  a  change  in  its 
moral  atmosphere  since  the  preceding  night.  Two  or 
three  men,  conversing  earnestly  together,  ceased  as  he 
approached,  and  exchanged  significant  glances.  There 
was  a  Sabbath  lull  in  the  air,  which,  in  a  settlement 
unused  to  Sabbath  influences,  looked  ominous. 

Mr.  Oakhurst's  calm,  handsome  face  betrayed  small 
concern  in  these  indications.  Whether  he  was  conscious 
of  any  predisposing  cause  was  another  question."  "I 
reckon  they're  after  somebody,"  he  reflected;  "likely 
it's  me."  He  returned  to  his  pocket  the  handkerchief 
with  which  he  had  been  wiping  away  the  red  dust  of 
Poker  Flat  from  his  neat  boots,  and  quietly  discharged 
his  mind  of  any  further  conjecture. 

In  point  of  fact.  Poker  Flat  was  "after  somebody."  It 


THE  OUTCASTS  OF  POKER  FLAT  137 

had  lately  suffered  the  loss  of  several  thousand  dollars, 
two  valuable  horses,  and  a  prominent  citizen.  It  was 
experiencing  a  spasm  of  virtuous  reaction,  quite  as  law- 
less and  ungovernable  as  any  of  the  acts  that  had  pro- 
voked it.  A  secret  committee  had  determined  to  rid  the 
town  of  all  improper  persons.  This  was  done  perma- 
nently in  regard  of  two  men  who  were  then  hanging 
from  the  boughs  of  a  sycamore  in  the  gulch,  and  tempo- 
rarily in  the  banishment  of  certain  other  objectionable 
characters.  I  regret  to  say  that  some  of  these  were  ladies. 
It  is  but  due  to  the  sex,  however,  to  state  that  their 
impropriety  was  professional,  and  it  was  only  in  such 
easily  established  standards  of  evil  that  Poker  Flat  ven- 
tured to  sit  in  judgment. 

Mr.  Oakhurst  was  right  in  supposing  that  he  was  in- 
cluded in  this  category.  A  few  of  the  committee  had 
urged  hanging  him  as  a  possible  example  and  a  sure 
method  of  reimbursing  themselves  from  his  pockets  of  the 
sums  he  had  won  from  them.  "It's  ag'in'  justice,"  said 
Jim  Wheeler,  "  to  let  this  yer  young  man  from  Roaring 
Camp  —  an  entire  stranger  —  carry  away  our  money." 
But  a  crude  sentiment  of  equity  residing  in  the  breasts 
of  those  who  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  win  from  Mr. 
Oakhurst  overruled  this  narrower  local  prejudice. 

Mr.  Oakhurst  received  his  sentence  with  philosophic 
calmness,  none  the  less  coolly  that  he  was  aware  of  the 
hesitation  of  his  judges.  He  was  too  much  of  a  gambler 
not  to  accept  fate.  With  him  life  was  at  best  an  uncer- 
tain game,  and  he  recognized  the  usual  percentage  in 
favor  of  the  dealer. 

A  body  of  armed  men  accompanied  the  deported  wick- 
edness of  Poker  Flat  to  the  outskirts  of  the  settlement. 
Besides  Mr.  Oakhurst,  who  was  known  to  be  a  coolly 
desperate  man,  and  for  whose  intimidation  the  armed 


138  CHARACTER 

escort  was  intended,  the  expatriated  party  consisted  of  a 
young  woman  familiarly  known  as  "The  Duchess"; 
another  who  had  won  the  title  of  "Mother  Shipton"; 
and  "Uncle  Billy,"  a  suspected  sluice-robber  and  con- 
firmed drunkard.  The  cavalcade  provoked  no  com- 
ments from  the  spectators,  nor  was  any  word  uttered  by 
the  escort.  Only  when  the  gulch  which  marked  the  utter- 
most limit  of  Poker  Flat  was  reached,  the  leader  spoke 
briefly  and  to  the  point.  The  exiles  were  forbidden  to 
return  at  the  peril  of  their  lives. 

As  the  escort  disappeared,  their  pent-up  feelings  found 
vent  in  a  few  hysterical  tears  from  the  Duchess,  some 
bad  language  from  Mother  Shipton,  and  a  Parthian 
volley  of  expletives  from  Uncle  Billy.  The  philosophic 
Oakhurst  alone  remained  silent.  He  listened  calmly  to 
Mother  Shipton's  desire  to  cut  somebody's  heart  out,  to 
the  repeated  statements  of  the  Duchess  that  she  would  die 
in  the  road,  and  to  the  alarming  oaths  that  seemed  to  be 
bumped  out  of  Uncle  Billy  as  he  rode  forward.  With  the 
easy  good  humor  characteristic  of  his  class,  he  insisted 
upon  exchanging  his  own  riding-horse,  "Five-spot,"  for 
the  sorry  mule  which  the  Duchess  rode.  But  even  this 
act  did  not  draw  the  party  into  any  closer  sympathy. 
The  young  woman  readjusted  her  somewhat  draggled 
plumes  with  a  feeble,  faded  coquetry;  Mother  Shipton 
eyed  the  possessor  of  "Five-Spot"  with  malevolence, 
and  Uncle  Billy  included  the  whole  party  in  one  sweep- 
ing anathema. 

The  road  to  Sandy  Bar  —  a  camp  that,  not  having 
as  yet  experienced  the  regenerating  influences  of  Poker 
Flat,  consequently  seemed  to  offer  some  invitation  to  the 
emigrants  —  lay  over  a  steep  mountain  range.  It  was 
distant  a  day's  severe  travel.  In  that  advanced  season 
the  party  soon  passed  out  of  the  moist,  temperate 


THE  OUTCASTS  OF  POKER  FLAT  139 

regions  of  the  foothills  into  the  dry,  cold,  bracing  air  of 
the  Sierras.  The  trail  was  narrow  and  difficult.  At  noon 
the  Duchess,  rolling  out  of  her  saddle  upon  the  ground, 
declared  her  intention  of  going  no  farther,  and  the  party 
halted. 

The  spot  was  singularly  wild  and  impressive.  A  wooded 
amphitheater  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  precipitous 
cliffs  of  naked  granite,  sloped  gently  toward  the  crest  of 
another  precipice  that  overlooked  the  valley.  It  was,  un- 
doubtedly, the  most  suitable  spot  for  a  camp,  had  camp- 
ing been  advisable.  But  Mr.  Oakhurst  knew  that  scarcely 
half  the  journey  to  Sandy  Bar  was  accomplished,  and 
the  party  were  not  equipped  or  provisioned  for  delay. 
This  fact  he  pointed  out  to  his  companions  curtly,  with 
a  philosophic  commentary  on  the  folly  of  "throwing  up 
their  hand  before  the  game  was  played  out."  But  they 
were  furnished  with  liquor,  which  in  this  emergency  stood 
them  in  place  of  food,  fuel,  rest,  and  prescience.  In  spite 
of  his  remonstrances,  it  was  not  long  before  they  were 
more  or  less  under  its  influence.  Uncle  Billy  passed 
rapidly  from  a  bellicose  state  into  one  of  stupor,  the 
Duchess  became  maudlin,  and  Mother  Shipton  snored. 
Mr.  Oakhurst  alone  remained  erect,  leaning  against  a 
rock,  calmly  surveying  them. 

Mr.  Oakhurst  did  not  drink.  It  interfered  with  a  pro- 
fession which  required  coolness,  impassiveness,  and  pres- 
ence of  mind,  and,  in  his  own  language,  he  "couldn't 
afford  it."  As  he  gazed  at  his  recumbent  fellow  exiles, 
the  loneliness  begotten  of  his  pariah  trade,  his  habits  of 
life,  his  very  vices,  for  the  first  time  seriously  oppressed 
him.  He  bestirred  himself  in  dusting  his  black  clothes, 
washing  his  hands  and  face,  and  other  acts  characteris- 
tic of  his  studiously  neat  habits,  and  for  a  moment  for- 
got his  annoyance.  The  thought  of  deserting  his  weaker 


140  CHARACTER 

and  more  pitiable  companions  never  perhaps  occurred 
to  him.  Yet  he  could  not  help  feeling  the  want  of  that 
excitement  which,  singularly  enough,  was  most  condu- 
cive to  that  calm  equanimity  for  which  he  was  no- 
torious. He  looked  at  the  gloomy  walls  that  rose  a 
thousand  feet  sheer  above  the  circling  pines  around  him, 
at  the  sky  ominously  clouded,  at  the  valley  below, 
already  deepening  into  shadow;  and,  doing  so,  suddenly 
he  heard  his  own  name  called. 

A  horseman  slowly  ascended  the  trail.  In  the  fresh, 
open  face  of  the  newcomer  Mr,  Oakhurst  recognized 
Tom  Simson,  otherwise  known  as  "The  Innocent,"  of 
Sandy  Bar.  He  had  met  him  some  months  before  over 
a  "little  game,"  and  had,  with  perfect  equanimity,  won 
the  entire  fortune  —  amounting  to  some  forty  dollars  — 
of  that  guileless  youth.  After  the  game  was  finished, 
Mr.  Oakhurst  drew  the  youthful  speculator  behind  the 
door  and  thus  addressed  him:  "Tommy,  you're  a  good 
little  man,  but  you  can't  gamble  worth  a  cent.  Don't 
try  it  over  again."  He  then  handed  him  his  money 
back,  pushed  him  gently  from  the  room,  and  so  made  a 
devoted  slave  of  Tom  Simson. 

There  was  a  remembrance  of  this  in  his  boyish  and  en- 
thusiastic greeting  of  Mr.  Oakhurst.  He  had  started,  he 
said,  to  go  to  Poker  Flat  to  seek  his  fortune.  "Alone?" 
No,  not  exactly  alone;  in  fact  (a  giggle),  he  had  run  away 
with  Piney  Woods.  Did  n't  Mr.  Oakhurst  remember 
Piney?  She  that  used  to  wait  on  the  table  at  the  Tem- 
perance House?  They  had  been  engaged  a  long  time,  but 
old  Jake  Woods  had  objected,  and  so  they  had  run  away, 
and  were  going  to  Poker  Flat  to  be  married,  and  here 
they  were.    And  they  were  tired  out,  and  how  lucky  it 


THE  OUTCASTS  OF  POKER  FLAT  141 

was  they  had  found  a  place  to  camp,  and  company.  All 
this  the  Innocent  delivered  rapidly,  while  Piney,  a  stout, 
comely  damsel  of  fifteen,  emerged  from  behind  the  pine 
tree,  where  she  had  been  blushing  unseen,  and  rode  to 
the  side  of  her  lover. 

Mr.  Oakhurst  seldom  troubled  himself  with  sentiment, 
still  less  with  propriety;  but  he  had  a  vague  idea  that 
the  situation  was  not  fortunate.  He  retained,  however, 
his  presence  of  mind  sufficiently  to  kick  Uncle  Billy,  who 
was  about  to  say  something,  and  Uncle  Billy  was  sob(* 
enough  to  recognize  in  Mr.  Oakhurst's  kick  a  superior 
power  that  Vv^ould  not  bear  trifling.  He  then  endeavored 
to  dissuade  Tom  Simson  from  delaying  further,  but  in 
vain.  He  even  pointed  out  the  fact  that  there  was  no 
provision,  nor  means  of  making  a  camp.  But,  unluckily, 
the  Innocent  met  this  objection  by  assuring  the  party 
that  he  was  provided  with  an  extra  mule  loaded  with 
provisions,  and  by  the  discovery  of  a  rude  attempt  at 
a  log  house  near  the  trail.  "Piney  can  stay  with  Mrs. 
Oakhurst,"  said  the  Innocent,  pointing  to  the  Duchess, 
"and  I  can  shift  for  myself." 

Nothing  but  Mr.  Oakhurst's  admonishing  foot  saved 
Uncle  Billy  from  bursting  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  As  it 
was,  he  felt  compelled  to  retire  up  the  canon  until  he 
could  recover  his  gravity.  There  he  confided  the  joke  to 
the  tall  pine  trees,  with  many  slaps  of  his  leg,  contortions 
of  his  face,  and  the  usual  profanity.  But  when  he  re- 
turned to  the  party,  he  found  them  seated  by  a  fire  — 
for  the  air  had  grown  strangely  chill  and  the  sky  overcast 
—  in  apparently  amicable  conversation.  Piney  was 
actually  talking  in  an  impulsive  girlish  fashion  to  the 
Duchess,  who  was  listening  with  an  interest  and  anima- 
tion she  had  not  shown  for  many  days.  The  Innocent 
was  holding  forth,  apparently  with  equal  effect,  to  Mr. 


142  CHARACTER 

Oakhurst  and  Mother  Shipton,  who  was  actually  re- 
laxing into  amiability.  "  Is  this  yer  a  d — d  picnic?  "  said 
Uncle  Billy,  with  inward  scorn,  as  he  surveyed  the  sylvan 
group,  the  glancing  firelight,  and  the  tethered  animals 
in  the  foreground.  Suddenly  an  idea  mingled  with  the 
alcoholic  fumes  that  disturbed  his  brain.  It  was  appar- 
ently of  a  jocular  nature,  for  he  felt  impelled  to  slap  his 
leg  again  and  cram  his  fist  into  his  mouth. 

As  the  shadows  crept  slowly  up  the  mountain,  a  slight 
breeze  rocked  the  tops  of  the  pine  trees  and  moaned 
through  their  long  and  gloomy  aisles.  The  ruined  cabin, 
patched  and  covered  with  pine  boughs,  was  set  apart 
for  the  ladies.  As  the  lovers  parted,  they  unaffectedly 
exchanged  a  kiss,  so  honest  and  sincere  that  it  might 
have  been  heard  above  the  swaying  pines.  The  frail 
Duchess  and  the  malevolent  Mother  Shipton  were  prob- 
ably too  stunned  to  remark  upon  this  last  evidence  of 
simplicity,  and  so  turned  without  a  word  to  the  hut.  The 
fire  was  replenished,  the  men  lay  down  before  the  door, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  were  asleep. 

Mr.  Oakhurst  was  a  light  sleeper.  Toward  morning 
he  awoke  benumbed  and  cold.  As  he  stirred  the  dying 
fire,  the  wind,  which  w^as  now  blowing  strongly,  brought 
to  his  cheek  that  which  caused  the  blood  to  leave  it,  — 
snow! 

He  started  to  his  feet  with  the  intention  of  awakening 
the  sleepers,  for  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  But  turning 
to  where  Uncle  Billy  had  been  lying,  he  found  him 
gone.  A  suspicion  leaped  to  his  brain,  and  a  curse  to  his 
lips.  He  ran  to  the  spot  where  the  mules  had  been  teth- 
ered —  they  were  no  longer  there.  The  tracks  were  al- 
ready rapidly  disappearing  in  the  snow. 

The  momentary  excitement  brought  Mr.  Oakhurst 
back  to  the  fire  with  his  usual  calm.  He  did  not  waken 


THE  OUTCASTS  OF  POKER  FLAT  143 

the  sleepers.  The  Innocent  slumbered  peacefully,  with 
a  smile  on  his  good-humored,  freckled  face;  the  virgin 
Piney  slept  beside  her  frailer  sisters  as  sweetly  as 
though  attended  by  celestial  guardians;  and  Mr.  Oak- 
hurst,  drawing  his  blanket  over  his  shoulders,  stroked 
his  mustaches  and  waited  for  the  dawn.  It  came  slowly 
in  a  whirling  mist  of  snowflakes  that  dazzled  and  con- 
fused the  eye.  What  could  be  seen  of  the  landscape  ap- 
peared magically  changed.  He  looked  over  the  valley, 
and  summed  up  the  present  and  future  in  two  words, 
"Snowed  in!" 

A  careful  inventory  of  the  provisions,  which,  fortu- 
nately for  the  party,  had  been  stored  within  the  hut,  and 
so  escaped  the  felonious  fingers  of  Uncle  Billy,  disclosed 
the  fact  that  with  care  and  prudence  they  might  last  ten 
days  longer.  "That  is,"  said  Mr.  Oakhurst  sotto  voce  to 
the  Innocent,  "  if  you  're  willing  to  board  us.  If  you  ain't 
—  and  perhaps  you  'd  better  not  —  you  can  wait  till 
Uncle  Billy  gets  back  with  provisions."  For  some  occult 
reason,  Mr.  Oakhurst  could  not  bring  himself  to  disclose 
Uncle  Billy's  rascality,  and  so  offered  the  hypothesis 
that  he  had  wandered  from  the  camp  and  had  accident- 
ally stampeded  the  animals.  He  dropped  a  warning  to 
the  Duchess  and  Mother  Shipton,  who,  of  course,  knew 
the  facts  of  their  associate's  defection.  "They'll  find 
out  the  truth  about  us  all  when  they  find  out  anything," 
he  added  significantly,  "and  there's  no  good  frightening 
them  now." 

Tom  Simson  not  only  put  all  his  worldly  store  at  the 
disposal  of  Mr.  Oakhurst,  but  seemed  to  enjoy  the  pros- 
pect of  their  enforced  seclusion.  "We'll  have  a  good 
camp  for  a  week,  and  then  the  snow '11  melt,  and  we'll 
all  go  back  together."  The  cheerful  gayety  of  the  young 
man  and  Mr.  Oakhurst's  calm  infected  the  others.   The 


144  CHARACTER 

Innocent,  with  the  aid  of  pine  boughs,  extemporized  a 
thatch  for  the  roofless  cabin,  and  the  Duchess  directed 
Piney  in  the  rearrangement  of  the  interior  with  a  taste 
and  tact  that  opened  the  blue  eyes  of  that  provincial 
maiden  to  their  fullest  extent.  "I  reckon  now  you're 
used  to  fine  things  at  Poker  Flat,"  said  Piney.  The 
Duchess  turned  away  sharply  to  conceal  something  that 
reddened  her  cheeks  through  their  professional  tint,  and 
Mother  Shipton  requested  Piney  not  to  "chatter."  But 
when  Mr.  Oakhurst  returned  from  a  weary  search  for 
the  trail,  he  heard  the  sound  of  happy  laughter  echoed 
from  the  rocks.  He  stopped  in  some  alarm,  and  his 
thoughts  first  naturally  reverted  to  the  whiskey,  which 
he  had  prudently  cached.  "And  yet  it  don't  somehow 
sound  like  whiskey,"  said  the  gambler.  It  was  not  until 
he  caught  sight  of  the  blazing  fire  through  the  still  blind- 
ing storm,  and  the  group  around  it,  that  he  settled  to  the 
conviction  that  it  was  "square  fun." 

Whether  Mr.  Oakhurst  had  cached  his  cards  with 
the  whiskey  as  something  debarred  the  free  access  of 
the  community,  I  cannot  say.  It  was  certain  that,  in 
Mother  Shipton's  words,  he  "did  n't  say  'cards'  once" 
during  that  evening.  Haply  the  time  was  beguiled  by 
an  accordion,  produced  somewhat  ostentatiously  by 
Tom  Simson  from  his  pack.  Notwithstanding  some 
difficulties  attending  the  manipulation  of  this  instru- 
ment, Piney  Woods  managed  to  pluck  several  reluc- 
tant melodies  from  its  keys,  to  an  accompaniment  by  the 
Innocent  on  a  pair  of  bone  castanets.  But  the  crown- 
ing festivity  of  the  evening  was  reached  in  a  rude  camp- 
meeting  hymn,  which  the  lovers,  joining  hands,  sang 
with  great  earnestness  and  vociferation.  I  fear  that  a 
certain  defiant  tone  and  Covenanter's  swing  to  its 
chorus,  rather  than  any  devotional  quality,  caused  it 


THE  OUTCASTS  OF  POKER  FLAT  145 

speedily  to  infect  the  others,  who  at  last  joined  in  the 
refrain :  — 

"  I  'm  proud  to  live  in  the  service  of  the  Lord, 
And  I'm  bound  to  die  in  his  army." 

The  pines  rocked,  the  storm  eddied  and  whirled  above 
the  miserable  group,  and  the  flames  of  their  altar  leaped 
heavenward,  as  if  in  token  of  the  vow. 

At  midnight  the  storm  abated,  the  rolling  clouds 
parted,  and  the  stars  glittered  keenly  above  the  sleep- 
ing camp.  Mr.  Oakhurst,  whose  professional  habits  had 
enabled  him  to  live  on  the  smallest  possible  amount  of 
sleep,  in  dividing  the  watch  with  Tom  Simson  somehow 
managed  to  take  upon  himself  the  greater  part  of  that 
duty.  He  excused  himself  to  the  Innocent  by  saying 
that  he  had  "often  been  a  week  without  sleep."  " Doing 
what.f*"  asked  Tom.  "Poker!"  replied  Oakhurst  sen- 
tentiously.  "When  a  man  gets  a  streak  of  luck,  —  nig- 
ger-luck, —  he  don't  get  tired.  The  luck  gives  in  first. 
Luck,"  contined  the  gambler  reflectively,  "is  a  mighty 
queer  thing.  All  you  know  about  it  for  certain  is  that  it 's 
bound  to  change.  And  it's  finding  out  when  it's  going 
to  change  that  makes  you.  We  've  had  a  streak  of  bad 
luck  since  we  left  Poker  Flat,  —  you  come  along,  and 
slap  you  get  into  it,  too.  If  you  can  hold  your  cards  right 
along  you're  all  right.  For,"  added  the  gambler,  with 
cheerful  irrelevance  — 

"'I'm  proud  to  live  in  the  service  of  the  Lord, 
And  I'm  bound  to  die  in  his  army.'" 

The  third  day  came,  and  the  sun,  looking  through  the 
white-curtained  valley,  saw  the  outcasts  divide  their 
slowly  decreasing  store  of  provisions  for  the  morning 
meal.  It  was  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  that  mountain 
climate  that  its  rays  diffused  a  kindly  warmth  over  the 


146  CHARACTER 

wintry  landscape,  as  if  in  regretful  commiseration  of  the 
past.  But  it  revealed  drift  on  drift  of  snow  piled  high 
around  the  hut,  —  a  hopeless,  uncharted,  trackless  sea 
of  white  lying  below  the  rocky  shores  to  which  the  cast- 
aways still  clung.  Through  the  marvelously  clear  air  the 
smoke  of  the  pastoral  village  of  Poker  Flat  rose  miles 
away.  Mother  Shipton  saw  it,  and  from  a  remote  pin- 
nacle of  her  rocky  fastness  hurled  in  that  direction  a  final 
malediction.  It  was  her  last  vituperative  attempt,  and 
perhaps  for  that  reason  was  invested  with  a  certain  de- 
gree of  sublimity.  It  did  her  good,  she  privately  informed 
the  Duchess.  "Just  you  go  out  there  and  cuss,  and  see." 
She  then  set  herself  to  the  task  of  amusing  "the  child," 
as  she  and  the  Duchess  were  pleased  to  call  Piney. 
Piney  was  no  chicken,  but  it  was  a  soothing  and  original 
theory  of  the  pair  thus  to  account  for  the  fact  that  she 
did  n't  swear  and  was  n't  improper. 

When  night  crept  up  again  through  the  gorges,  the 
reedy  notes  of  the  accordion  rose  and  fell  in  fitful  spasms 
and  long-drawn  gasps  by  the  flickering  camp-fire.  But 
music  failed  to  fill  entirely  the  aching  void  left  by  insuf- 
ficient food,  and  a  new  diversion  was  proposed  by  Piney, 

—  story-telling.  Neither  Mr.  Oakhurst  nor  his  female 
companions  caring  to  relate  their  personal  experiences, 
this  plan  would  have  failed  too,  but  for  the  Innocent. 
Some  months  before  he  had  chanced  upon  a  stray  copy 
of  Mr.  Pope's  ingenious  translation  of  the  Iliad.  He  now 
proposed  to  narrate  the  principal  incidents  of  that  poem 

—  having  thoroughly  mastered  the  argument  and  fairly 
forgotten  the  words  —  in  the  current  vernacular  of 
Sandy  Bar.  And  so  for  the  rest  of  that  night  the  Ho- 
meric demigods  again  walked  the  earth.  Trojan  bully 
and  wily  Greek  wrestled  in  the  winds,  and  the  great 
pines  in  the  canon  seemed  to  bow  to  the  wrath  of  the  son 


THE  OUTCASTS  OF  POKER  FLAT  147 

of  Peleus.  Mr.  Oakhurst  listened  with  quiet  satisfaction. 
Most  especially  was  he  interested  in  the  fate  of  "Ash- 
heels,"  as  the  Innocent  persisted  in  denominating  the 
"swift-footed  Achilles." 

So,  with  small  food  and  much  of  Homer  and  the  ac- 
cordion, a  week  passed  over  the  heads  of  the  outcasts. 
The  sun  again  forsook  them,  and  again  from  leaden  skies 
the  snowflakes  were  sifted  over  the  land.  Day  by  day 
closer  around  them  drew  the  snowy  circle,  until  at  last 
they  looked  from  their  prison  over  drifted  walls  of  daz- 
zling white,  that  towered  twenty  feet  above  their  heads. 
It  became  more  and  more  difficult  to  replenish  their  fires, 
even  from  the  fallen  trees  beside  them,  now  half  hidden 
in  the  drifts.  And  yet  no  one  complained.  The  lovers 
turned  from  the  dreary  prospect  and  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes,  and  were  happy.  Mr.  Oakhurst  settled  him- 
self coolly  to  the  losing  game  before  him.  The  Duchess, 
more  cheerful  than  she  had  been,  assumed  the  care  of 
Piney.  Only  Mother  Shipton  —  once  the  strongest  of 
the  party  —  seemed  to  sicken  and  fade.  At  midnight  on 
the  tenth  day  she  called  Oakhurst  to  her  side.  "  I  'm  go- 
ing," she  said,  in  a  voice  of  querulous  weakness,  "but 
don't  say  anything  about  it.  Don't  waken  the  kids. 
Take  the  bundle  from  under  my  head,  and  open  it." 
Mr.  Oakhurst  did  so.  It  contained  Mother  Shipton's 
rations  for  the  last  week,  untouched.  "Give  'em  to  the 
child,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  sleeping  Piney.  "You've 
starved  yourself,"  said  the  gambler.  "  That 's  what  they 
call  it,"  said  the  woman  querulously,  as  she  lay  down 
again,  and,  turning  her  face  to  the  wall,  passed  quietly 
away. 

The  accordion  and  the  bones  were  put  aside  that  day, 
and  Homer  was  forgotten.  When  the  body  of  Mother 
Shipton  had  been  committed  to  the  snow,  Mr.  Oakhurst 


148  CHARACTER 

took  the  Innocent  aside,  and  showed  him  a  pair  of  snow- 
shoes,  which  he  had  fashioned  from  the  old  pack-saddle. 
"There's  one  chance  in  a  hundred  to  save  her  yet,"  he 
said,  pointing  to  Piney;  "but  it's  there,"  he  addedj 
pointing  toward  Poker  Flat.  "  If  you  can  reach  there  in 
two  days,  she's  safe."  "And  you?"  asked  Tom  Simson. 
"I'll  stay  here,"  was  the  curt  reply. 

The  lovers  parted  with  a  long  embrace.  "  You  are  not 
going,  too?"  said  the  Duchess,  as  she  saw  Mr.  Oakhurst 
apparently  waiting  to  accompany  him.  "As  far  as  the 
canon,"  he  replied.  He  turned  suddenly  and  kissed  the 
Duchess,  leaving  her  pallid  face  aflame,  and  her  trem- 
bling limbs  rigid  with  amazement. 

Night  came,  but  not  Mr.  Oakhurst.  It  brought  the 
storm  again  and  the  whirling  snow.  Then  the  Duchess, 
feeding  the  fire,  found  that  some  one  had  quietly  piled 
beside  the  hut  enough  fuel  to  last  a  few  days  longer.  The 
tears  rose  to  her  eyes,  but  she  hid  them  from  Piney. 

The  women  slept  but  little.  In  the  morning,  looking 
into  each  other's  faces,  they  read  their  fate.  Neither 
spoke,  but  Piney,  accepting  the  position  of  the  stronger, 
drew  near  and  placed  her  arm  around  the  Duchess's 
waist.  They  kept  this  attitude  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 
That  night  the  storm  reached  its  greatest  fury,  and,  rend- 
ing asunder  the  protecting  vines,  invaded  the  very  hut. 

Toward  morning  they  found  themselves  unable  to 
feed  the  fire,  which  gradually  died  away.  As  the  embers 
slowly  blackened,  the  Duchess  crept  closer  to  Piney, 
and  broke  the  silence  of  many  hours:  "Piney,  can  you 
pray?"  "No,  dear,"  said  Piney  simply.  The  Duchess, 
without  knowing  exactly  why,  felt  relieved,  and,  putting 
her  head  upon  Piney 's  shoulder,  spoke  no  more.  And  so 
reclining,  the  younger  and  purer  pillowing  the  head  of 
her  soiled  sister  upon  her  virgin  breast,  they  fell  asleep. 


THE  OUTCASTS  OF  POKER  FLAT  149 

The  wind  lulled  as  if  it  feared  to  waken  them.  Feath- 
ery drifts  of  snow,  shaken  from  the  long  pine  boughs, 
flew  like  white  winged  birds,  and  settled  about  them  as 
they  slept.  The  moon  through  the  rifted  clouds  looked 
down  upon  what  had  been  the  camp.  But  all  human 
stain,  all  trace  of  earthly  travail,  was  hidden  beneath 
the  spotless  mantle  mercifully  flung  from  above. 

They  slept  all  that  day  and  the  next,  nor  did  they 
waken  when  voices  and  footsteps  broke  the  silence  of  the 
camp.  And  when  pitying  fingers  brushed  the  snow  from 
their  wan  faces,  you  could  scarcely  have  told  from  the 
equal  peace  that  dwelt  upon  them  which  was  she  that 
had  sinned.  Even  the  law  of  Poker  Flat  recognized 
this,  and  turned  away,  leaving  them  still  locked  in  each 
other's  arms. 

But  at  the  head  of  the  gulch,  on  one  of  the  largest  pine 
trees,  they  found  the  deuce  of  clubs  pinned  to  the  bark 
with  a  bowie-knife.  It  bore  the  following,  written  in 
pencil  in  a  firm  hand:  — 

t 

BENEATH   THIS   TREE 

LIES   THE   BODY 

OF 

JOHN  OAKHURST 

WHO   STRUCK   A   STREAK   OF   BAD    LUCK 

ON   THE   23D   OF   NOVEMBER    1850, 

AND 

HANDED   IN   HIS   CHECKS 

ON   THE   7TH   DECEMBER    1850. 

And  pulseless  and  cold,  with  a  derringer  by  his  side  and 
a  bullet  in  his  heart,  though  still  calm  as  in  life,  beneath 
the  snow  lay  he  who  was  at  once  the  strongest  and  yet 
the  weakest  of  the  outcasts  of  Poker  Flat. 


A  COWARD  ^ 

(Un  Ldche) 

BY  GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT 

This  story  is  a  careful  and  detailed  study  of  a  mental  state. 
The  "event,"  which  in  this  case  constitutes  the  basis  of  the 
narrative,  is  the  overthrow  of  De  Signolles's  mind  under  the 
strain  of  the  prospective  duel  with  Lamil;  and  the  "chrono- 
logical details"  are  the  successive  steps  which  lead  up  to  the 
tragedy  chronicled  in  the  closing  paragraphs.  The  cumulative 
character  of  these  details  is  one  of  the  notable  elements  in  the 
story.  They  proceed  by  almost  imperceptible  degrees  from  the 
hero's  first  sense  of  fine  energy,  of  satisfaction  over  a  disagree- 
able act  creditably  performed,  through  the  scale  of  anger, 
faint  uneasiness,  nervousness,  dread,  increasing  physical  agi- 
tation, up  to  utter  desperation,  under  the  influence  of  which, 
the  victim  of  his  own  morbid  imagination,  he  suddenly  puts 
an  end  to  it  all.  The  gradually  increasing  violence  of  the  emo- 
tions gives  to  the  narrative  a  climactic  effect  unusual  in  char- 
acterization. Not  only  are  clearness,  unity,  and  coherence  well 
exemplified,  but  force  is  also  an  important  structural  quality. 

The  story  suggests  also  the  condensation  of  details  by  which 
the  narrative  may  approximate  the  time  actually  consumed 
in  the  accomplishment  of  the  facts  chronicled  —  somewhat 
after  the  method  of  the  classic  drama,  wherein  the  unities  of 
time  and  place  played  so  important  a  part.  An  examination  of 
the  other  stories  included  in  this  volume  will  show  that  most 
of  them  cover  considerable  periods  of  time;  it  is  only  by  a 
careful  process  of  selection  and  by  bridging  over  lapses  in  the 
action  and  rendering  them  as  inconspicuous  as  possible  that 
the  narratives  are  condensed  within  the  limits  of  the  conven- 
tional short-story.  In  A  Coward,  however,  the  entire  action 
covers  but  a  few  hours,  and  during  most  of  that  time  the  hero 
is  before  the  reader,  and  every  successive  step  leading  up  to  the 

^  Translated  for  this  work  by  the  Editor. 


A  COWARD  151 

terminal  tragedy  is  developed  in  minute  detail.  In  this  re- 
spect the  story  may  well  be  contrasted  with  Hawthorne's  The 
Great  Stone  Face  or  with  Maupassant's  The  Necklace. 

He  was  known  in  society  as  the" handsome  Signolles." 
His  name  was  Viscount  Gontran-Joseph  de  Signolles. 

An  orphan  and  possessed  of  a  considerable  fortune,  he 
"cut  quite  a  figure,"  as  the  saying  goes.  He  was  well 
built;  he  carried  himself  well;  he  was  gifted  with  suffi- 
cient conversational  power  to  be  credited  with  clever- 
ness; he  had  a  certain  natural  grace  about  him,  an  air 
of  distinction  and  pride,  a  gallant  mustache,  a  gentle 
glance,  —  and  this  pleased  the  women. 

In  the  drawing-rooms  he  was  a  general  favorite;  he 
was  much  sought  after  as  a  partner  in  the  waltz;  and  he 
aroused  among  men  that  half-hearted  hostility  so  often 
felt  toward  persons  of  energy.  He  was  suspected  of  sev- 
eral successful  love-affairs.  He  lived  a  happy,  unevent- 
ful life,  completely  at  peace  with  himself  and  with  the 
world.  He  was  known  to  be  a  good  fencer  and  an  even 
better  shot. 

"If  ever  I  fight,"  said  he,  "I  shall  choose  the  pistol. 
With  this  weapon  I  am  sure  of  killing  my  man." 

Well,  one  evening,  after  he  had  attended  the  theater 
in  company  with  two  young  women  of  his  acquaintance 
and  their  husbands,  he  invited  them,  at  the  close  of  the 
performance,  to  take  an  ice  at  Tortoni's.  They  had  been 
there  several  minutes  when  he  observed  that  a  gentle- 
man seated  at  a  table  near  by  was  staring  at  one  of  his 
companions.  She  seemed  annoyed  and  nervous,  and 
dropped  her  eyes. 

Finally  she  said  to  her  husband,  "That  man  is  staring 
me  out  of  countenance.    I  don't  know  him;  do  you?" 

Her  husband,  who  had  noticed  nothing,  looked  up  and 
said,  "No.   I  never  saw  him  in  my  life." 


152  CHARACTER 

The  young  woman,  half  smiling,  ha^  >nnoyed,  re- 
plied, "It  is  very  embarrassing;  the  f(  /f  is  spoiling 
my  ice." 

Her  husband  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Nonsense! 
Don't  pay  any  attention  to  him.  If  one  were  to  notice 
every  impudent  fellow  that  he  meets,  there  would  be  no 
end  of  trouble." 

But  the  viscount  suddenly  rose  from  his  chair.  He 
could  not  allow  this  stranger  to  spoil  an  ice  that  he  had 
offered.  The  insult  was  addressed  to  him,  as  it  was  in 
his  company  and  at  his  invitation  that  his  friends  had 
entered  the  cafe.  The  affair  consequently  concerned 
him  alone. 

He  stepped  up  to  the  man  and  said,  "You  are  staring 
at  these  ladies,  sir,  in  a  manner  that  I  cannot  allow.  I 
beg  that  you  have  the  goodness  to  put  an  end  to  it." 

"Mind  your  own  business,"  exclaimed  the  other. 

The  viscount  hissed  through  his  teeth,  "Be  careful,  sir. 
You  will  force  me  to  take  extreme  measures." 

The  man  replied  with  one  word,  a  foul  one,  which  rang 
from  one  end  of  the  cafe  to  the  other,  and  caused  every 
one  in  the  room  to  jump.  Those  whose  backs  were  turned 
wheeled  around;  the  others  looked  up;  three  waiters 
spun  around  on  their  heels  like  three  tops;  the  two  girls 
at  the  desk  started  and  turned  about  like  two  automata 
moved  by  a  common  impulse. 

A  deep  silence  fell  upon  the  room.  Then  suddenly  a 
sharp  sound  smote  the  air.  The  viscount  had  slapped 
his  adversary's  face.  Every  one  leaped  up  to  interfere. 
Cards  were  exchanged. 

When  the  viscount  reached  his  own  apartments  he 
paced  up  and  down  the  length  of  his  room  several  times 
with  long,  nervous  strides.   He  was  too  much  agitated 


A  COWARD  153 

to  think  conriv  >tedly.  One  single  thought  haunted  him: 
"  A  duel";  bu-  as  yet  it  aroused  no  particular  emotion- 
He  had  done  lis  duty.  People  would  talk  about  it;  they 
would  approve  of  what  he  had  done;  they  would  con- 
gratulate him. 

In  the  voice  of  one  deeply  aroused  he  said  aloud  to 
himself,  "What  a  brute  that  fellow  was!  " 

Then  he  sat  down,  and  began  to  reflect.  The  first 
thing  in  the  morning  he  must  secure  his  seconds.  ^Miom 
should  he  choose?  He  thought  over  the  most  celebrated 
men  of  his  acquaintance,  those  of  the  best  social  stand- 
ing. Finally  he  selected  the  Marquis  de  la  Tour-Noire 
and  Colonel  Bourdin,  a  nobleman  and  an  officer.  An 
excellent  choice.  Their  names  would  look  well  in  the 
papers. 

He  found  that  he  was  thirsty,  and  he  drained  off  three 
glasses  of  water,  one  after  another;  then  he  began  once 
more  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room.  He  felt  as  if  he  was 
full  of  energy.  If  he  blustered  a  little,  if  he  showed  him- 
self determined  at  every  point,  if  he  insisted  on  strict, 
dangerous  conditions,  if  he  demanded  that  the  duel  be 
serious,  very  serious,  terrific,  his  opponent  would  prob- 
ably withdraw  and  offer  his  apologies. 

He  picked  up  the  card  which  he  had  drawn  from  his 
pocket  and  had  thrown  on  the  table,  and  read  it  again, 
as  he  had  already  read  it  with  a  glance  in  the  cafe  and 
in  the  cab  by  the  light  of  every  street-lamp  on  his  way 
home. 

"George  Lamil,  51  Rue  Money." 

Nothing  more. 

He  scrutinized  the  letters;  they  seemed  charged  with 
mystery,  full  of  hidden  significance.  George  Lamil. 
Who  was  this  fellow?  What  had  he  done?  Why  had  he 
stared  so  at  the  woman?    Was  it  not  outrageous  that 


154  CHARACTER 

a  total  stranger  should  suddenly  disturb  one's  life  in 
this  fashion  because  he  had  taken  a  fancy  to  stare  at  a 
woman? 

And  once  more  the  viscount  exclaimed  aloud,  "  What 
a  brute!" 

Then  he  stood  still  and  thought,  his  glance  still  fixed 
on  the  card.  Anger  surged  up  within  him  at  this  bit  of 
paper,  a  feeling  of  resentment  in  which  was  mingled  an 
odd  sensation  of  uneasiness.  What  a  stupid  piece  of 
business  this  was!  He  picked  up  an  open  penknife 
which  lay  near,  and  stuck  it  into  the  very  middle  of  the 
printed  name,  as  if  he  had  stabbed  some  one. 

W^ell,  they  would  have  to  fight.  Should  he  choose 
swords  or  pistols?  —  for  he  considered  himself  the  in- 
jured party.  The  risk  was  less  with  swords,  but  if  he 
chose  pistols  there  was  a  chance  that  his  opponent  might 
back  out.  It  is  only  on  rare  occasions  that  a  duel  with 
swords  is  mortal,  as  mutual  prudence  prevents  the  com- 
batants from  standing  near  enough  to  each  other  for  the 
point  of  the  blade  to  inflict  a  deep  wound.  With  pistols, 
indeed,  he  ran  serious  risk  of  his  life,  but  then  he  might 
get  out  of  the  affair  with  all  the  honors  of  the  situation 
and  without  coming  to  an  actual  meeting. 

He  said,  "I  must  be  firm.   He  will  be  afraid." 

The  sound  of  his  own  voice  gave  him  a  start,  and 
he  glanced  about  him.  He  felt  very  nervous.  He  tossed 
off  another  glass  of  water,  and  began  to  prepare  for 
bed. 

As  .soon  as  he  was  in  bed,  he  extinguished  his  light  and 
closed  his  eyes. 

"I  have  all  day  to-morrow  to  think  over  my  affairs," 
he  thought.  "I  will  get  some  sleep  first  to  quiet  my 
nerves." 

He  felt  very  warm  under  the  clothes,  but  he  could  not 


A  COWARD  155 

get  to  sleep.  He  tossed  about;  for  five  minutes  he  lay  on 
his  back;  then  on  his  left  side;  then  on  his  right. 

He  was  still  thirsty.  He  got  up  to  drink.  Then  an 
awful  thought  struck  him :  — 

"Suppose  I  should  be  afraid!" 

Why  did  his  heart  begin  to  beat  madly  at  every  fa- 
miliar sound  in  the  room?  When  the  clock  was  about  to 
strike,  the  whirring  of  the  spring  made  him  start;  and 
for  several  seconds  he  had  to  keep  his  mouth  open  in 
order  to  breathe,  so  oppressed  was  he. 

He  began  to  reason  with  himself  on  the  possibility  of 
the  idea,  "Suppose  I  should  be  afraid!" 

Certainly  he  should  not  be  afraid ;  had  he  not  made  up 
his  mind  to  carry  the  affair  through  to  the  end?  Had  he 
not  firmly  determined  to  fight,  to  fear  nothing?  But  he 
felt  so  thoroughly  upset  that  he  asked  himself,  "Can  a 
man  be  frightened  in  spite  of  himself?" 

And  doubt,  anxiety,  terror  began  to  creep  over  him. 
What  would  happen  if  some  power  stronger  than  his  own 
indomitable  will  should  get  the  better  of  him?  Yes, 
what  would  happen?  He  certainly  should  appear  on  the 
ground,  for  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  do  so.  But  what 
if  he  should  tremble?  What  if  he  should  faint?  And  he 
thought  of  his  position,  of  his  reputation,  of  his  good 
name. 

And  suddenly  he  was  seized  with  a  strange  desire 
to  get  up  and  look  at  himself  in  the  glass.  He  lighted 
his  candle.  When  he  saw  the  reflection  of  his  face  in 
the  polished  mirror,  he  scarcely  recognized  himself;  it 
seemed  as  if  he  were  looking  at  a  stranger.  His  eyes  ap- 
peared enormous;  and  he  was  pale;  there  was  no  doubt 
about  it,  he  was  certainly  pale,  very  pale. 

He  continued  to  stand  before  the  mirror;  he  thrust 
out  his  tongue  as  if  to  test  the  state  of  his  health;  and 


156  CHARACTER 

suddenly  this  thought  struck  him  like  a  shot:  "The  day 
after  to-morrow  at  this  time  perhaps  I  shall  be  dead." 

And  his  heart  began  to  beat  again  like  mad. 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow  at  this  time  perhaps  I  shall 
be  dead.  This  man  whom  I  see  before  me  in  this  glass 
will  no  longer  be  alive.  The  thought  of  it !  Here  I  am.  I 
am  looking  at  myself,  and  in  twenty -four  hours  I  shall 
be  lying  in  this  bed,  dead,  my  eyes  closed,  cold,  lifeless, 
gone." 

He  turned  toward  the  bed,  and  he  distinctly  saw  him- 
self stretched  out  at  full  length  under  the  very  sheets 
that  he  had  that  moment  left.  He  had  the  hollow  fea- 
tures and  the  lax  hands  of  a  corpse. 

Then  he  grew  afraid  of  his  bed,  and  went  through  into 
his  smoking-room  that  he  might  not  see  it  any  longer. 
Mechanically  he  took  a  cigar,  lighted  it,  and  began  to 
pace  up  and  down.  He  was  cold.  He  started  toward  the 
bell  to  arouse  his  valet,  but  he  stopped  suddenly,  his 
hand  extended  toward  the  bell-rope. 

"The  man  will  see  that  I  am  afraid." 

And  he  did  not  ring;  he  made  the  fire  himself.  His 
hands  trembled  slightly,  nervously,  when  they  touched 
anything.  His  mind  wandered;  his  troubled  thoughts 
became  disconnected,  flurried,  melancholy;  dizziness 
swept  over  him  as  if  he  had  been  drinking. 

And  he  kept  asking  himself,  "What  shall  I  do?  What 
will  become  of  me?  " 

His  whole  frameshook  with  jerky  convulsions;  he  got  up 
again,  and,  approaching  the  window,  drew  the  curtains. 

Day  was  breaking,  a  summer's  day.  The  rosy  sky  was 
tinting  the  roofs  and  walls  of  the  city  with  pink.  The 
light,  like  a  caress  from  the  rising  sun,  enveloped  the 
awakening  world;  and  with  this  gleam  a  sensation  of 
inspiring  hope  swept  swiftly  and  fiercely  through  the 


A  COWARD  157 

viscount' s  heart.  Jla.d  he  been  mad  thus  to  be  dismayed 
by  fear,  before  a  thing  had  been  settled,  before  his  sec- 
onds had  seen  those  of  George  Lamil,  before  he  even 
knew  whether  he  was  going  to  fight  at  all? 

He  made  his  toilet,  dressed  himself,  and  went  out  with 
a  firm  step. 

As  he  walked  along  he  kept  saying  to  himself,  "  I  must 
be  firm,  very  firm.   I  must  prove  that  I  am  not  afraid," 

His  seconds,  the  marquis  and  the  colonel,  put  them- 
selves at  his  disposal,  and,  after  shaking  hands  with  him 
vigorously,  they  discussed  the  conditions. 

"You  want  a  serious  duel,  don't  you?"  asked  the 
colonel. 

"Very  serious,"  answered  the  viscount. 

"You  insist  on  pistols?"  said  the  marquis. 

"Yes." 

"You  leave  the  rest  to  us?" 

In  a  dry,  hesitant  voice  the  viscount  managed  to  say, 
"Twenty  paces;  at  the  word;  raising  the  arm  instead  of 
lowering  it;  shots  to  be  exchanged  until  one  party  is  seri- 
ously wounded." 

"Those  are  excellent  conditions,"  said  the  colonel  in 
a  tone  of  satisfaction.  "You  are  a  good  shot;  all  the 
chances  are  in  your  favor." 

And  they  departed. 

The  viscount  returned  home  to  wait  for  them.  His 
agitation  increased  every  moment.  Along  his  arms, 
along  his  legs,  in  his  chest,  he  felt  a  sort  of  trembling,  a 
sense  of  continuous  vibration ;  he  could  not  stand  nor  sit 
in  one  place  two  consecutive  minutes.  There  was  not 
a  drop  of  moisture  in  his  mouth,  and  he  kept  making 
audible  sounds  with  his  tongue  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
unglue  it  from  his  palate. 


158  CHARACTER 

He  made  up  his  mind  to  have  breakfast,  but  he  could 
not  eat.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  would  drink  in 
order  to  give  him  courage,  and  he  had  a  carafe  of  rum 
brought  in,  and  swallowed  in  quick  succession  six  small 
glasses. 

A  warmth  like  that  of  a  burn  spread  through  his  veins, 
followed  immediately  by  a  sensation  of  dullness. 

"That's  the  idea,"  thought  he.  "Now  things  are  go- 
ing all  right." 

But  at  the  end  of  an  hour  he  had  emptied  the  carafe, 
and  his  nervousness  again  became  intolerable.  He  felt 
a  mad  inclination  to  roll  on  the  floor,  to  shriek,  to  bite. 

Evening  drew  on. 

The  ringing  of  his  doorbell  gave  him  such  a  sense  of 
suffocation  that  he  had  not  the  strength  to  get  up  and 
greet  his  seconds. 

He  no  longer  dared  to  speak,  to  say,  "How  are  you?" 
—  to  utter  a  single  word,  for  fear  that  they  would  guess 
everything  from  the  alteration  in  his  voice. 

"It's  all  settled  in  accordance  with  your  own  condi- 
tions," said  the  colonel.  "Your  opponent  at  first  de- 
manded the  privilege  of  the  insulted  party,  but  he  yielded 
almost  immediately  and  agreed  to  everything.  His  sec- 
onds are  two  officers." 

"Thanks,"  said  the  viscount. 

"Excuse  us  if  we  only  drop  in  on  you  and  run  away," 
said  the  marquis,  "but  we  still  have  a  thousand  things 
to  attend  to.  We  must  have  a  good  surgeon,  for  the 
duel  is  not  to  stop  until  one  of  you  is  seriously  hurt,  and 
bullets,  you  know,  are  no  joke.  We  must  choose  a  place 
near  some  house  so  that,  if  necessary,  we  can  carry  the 
wounded  party  there,  and  all  that.  We  have  two  hours 
for  it  yet." 

A  second  time  the  viscount  managed  to  say  "Thanks." 


A  COWARD  159 

"You  are  all  right?"  asked  the  colonel.  "You  are 
calm?" 

"Yes,  very  calm,  thanks." 
The  two  men  withdrew. 

When  he  realized  that  he  was  alone  again,  it  seemed 
as  if  he  was  losing  his  mind.  The  servant  had  lighted 
the  lamps,  and  he  seated  himself  at  the  table  to  write 
some  letters.  Having  written  at  the  top  of  one  page 
"This  is  my  will,"  he  got  up  suddenly  and  moved  away, 
feeling  incapable  of  putting  two  ideas  together,  of  taking 
a  single  resolution,  of  coming  to  any  decision. 

And  so  he  was  going  to  fight.  There  was  no  longer  any 
escape  from  that.  What,  then,  ailed  him?  He  wanted  to 
fight;  he  had  the  firm  intention  and  resolution  of  doing 
so;  yet  he  realized  that,  in  spite  of  every  effort  of  his 
mind  and  all  the  power  of  his  will,  he  should  not  retain 
even  the  strength  necessary  to  go  to  the  scene  of  the  en- 
counter. He  tried  to  picture  to  himself  the  duel,  his 
own  attitude,  and  the  bearing  of  his  adversary. 

From  time  to  time  his  teeth  chattered  with  a  dry 
sound.  He  determined  to  read,  and  he  picked  up  Chd- 
teauvillard's  dueling  code.  Then  he  asked  himself  the 
question,  "Has  my  opponent  frequented  the  shooting 
galleries?  Is  he  well  known?  What  is  his  class?  How 
can  I  find  out?" 

He  recollected  Baron  de  Vaux's  book  on  experts  with 
the  pistol,  and  he  ran  through  it  from  one  end  to  the 
other.  George  Lamil  was  not  mentioned.  Yet  if  the 
man  were  not  an  expert,  would  he  have  accepted  with- 
out hesitation  this  dangerous  weapon  and  these  mortal 
conditions? 

He  opened  a  box  by  Gastinne  Renette,  which  lay  on  a 
table,  and  picked  up  one  of  the  pistols;  then  he  tookposi- 


160  CHARACTER 

tion  as  if  he  were  going  to  fire,  and  raised  his  arm.  But 
he  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  and  the  barrel  shook  in 
every  direction. 

"This  is  impossible,"  said  he.  "I  cannot  fight  in  this 
condition." 

He  looked  into  the  end  of  the  barrel,  at  the  deep  little 
black  hole  that  spits  death ;  he  thought  of  the  dishonor, 
of  the  whispers  at  the  clubs,  of  the  scorn  of  the  women, 
of  the  allusions  in  the  daily  papers,  of  the  insults  that 
cowards  would  cast  at  him. 

He  continued  to  stare  at  the  weapon,  and,  raising  the 
hammer,  he  suddenly  saw  the  priming  gleaming  under  it 
like  a  little  red  flame.  By  an  oversight  the  pistol  had 
been  left  loaded.  And  at  this  he  felt  a  vague  and  inex- 
plicable sense  of  joy. 

If,  face  to  face  with  his  enemy,  he  had  not  the  noble 
and  calm  bearing  which  was  to  be  expected,  he  should 
be  lost  forever.  He  should  be  tainted,  branded  with  in- 
famy, driven  from  society.  And  he  should  not  have  this 
noble  and  calm  bearing:  —  he  knew  it;  he  felt  it.  Yet 
he  was  brave,  for  he  wanted  to  fight.  .  .  .  He  was  brave, 
for  .  .  . 

The  thought  that  began  to  take  form  in  his  mind  was 
never  completed;  but,  opening  his  mouth  wide,  he  sud- 
denly thrust  the  barrel  of  the  pistol  deep  into  the  back 
of  his  throat,  and  pressed  the  trigger.  .  .  . 

When  his  valet,  alarmed  by  the  report,  rushed  in,  he 
found  him  lying  on  his  back,  dead.  A  jet  of  blood  had 
spattered  the  white  paper  on  the  table,  and  made  a  great 
red  stain  above  these  four  words:  — 

"This  is  my  will." 


PLOT 


MURAD  THE   UNLUCKY  i 

BY  MARIA  EDGEWORTH 

This  tale  is  presented  as  an  excellent  type  of  plot  in  its 
simplest  form,  —  that  known  as  the  picaresque  plot.  Tliis 
consists  of  a  single  strand  wholly,  or  almost  wholly,  free  from 
complication.  The  general  course  of  the  action  in  such  cases 
may  be  represented  as  follows :  — 

X X X X X 

Here  we  have  merely  a  succession  of  episodes  ( X )  following 
one  after  another  in  chronological  order.  Of  this  sort  are  most 
of  the  old  English  chronicle  tales  that  preceded  the  prose 
fiction  of  the  eighteenth  century.  The  type  is  familiar  to  us 
in  the  adventure  tales  of  our  childhood,  such  as  Jack  the 
Giant  Killer,  Little  Red  Riding  Hood,  and  Robinson  Crusoe,  — 
stories  in  which  the  phrase  "and  then,"  frequently  repeated, 
constitutes  the  principal  bond  between  the  constituent  por- 
tions. Many  of  the  great  masterpieces  of  prose  fiction  are  but 
extensive  instances  of  the  same  type:  Gil  Bias  and  Don  Quixote, 
for  example. 

In  these  chronicle  narratives  the  original  interest  is  a  mat- 
ter of  plot;  that  is,  it  lies  mainly  in  the  course  of  the  events  re- 
corded. And,  while  they  may  sometimes  present  noteworthy 
characterization,  —  as  in  the  case  of  Don  Quixote,  —  yet  even 
in  such  instances  the  simple  adventure  interest  has  the  pre- 
cedence. The  unity  of  these  narratives  must  depend  upon 
the  narrator's  ability  to  keep  before  the  reader  the  central 
personage  about  whom  the  various  episodes  cluster,  as  is  done 
in  the  events  that  set  forth  the  isolation  of  Robinson  Crusoe, 
or,  as  in  the  present  case,  in  those  that  emphasize  the  fatalities  of 
Murad  the  Imprudent  and  the  good  fortune  of  Saladin  the 
Prudent.  In  other  words,  the  unity  of  the  picaresque  narra- 
tive is  peculiarly  dependent  upon  coherence. 

*  From  Popular  Tales. 


164  PLOT 


It  is  well  known  that  the  grand  seignior  amuses  him- 
self by  going  at  night,  in  disguise,  through  the  streets  of 
Constantinople;  as  the  caliph,  Haroun  Alraschid,  used 
formerly  to  do  in  Bagdad. 

One  moonlight  night,  accompanied  by  his  grand  vizier, 
he  traversed  several  of  the  principal  streets  of  the  city, 
without  seeing  anything  remarkable.  At  length,  as  they 
were  passing  a  ropemaker's,  the  sultan  recollected  the 
Arabian  story  of  Cogia-Hassan  Alhabal,  the  ropemaker, 
and  his  two  friends,  Saad  and  Saadi,  who  differed  so 
much  in  their  opinion  concerning  the  influence  of  for- 
tune over  human  affairs. 

"What  is  your  opinion  on  this  subject?"  said  the 
grand  seignior  to  his  vizier. 

"I  am  inclined,  please  Your  Majesty,"  replied  the  viz- 
ier, "to  think  that  success  in  the  world  depends  more 
upon  prudence  than  upon  what  is  called  luck,  or  fortune." 

"And  I,"  said  the  sultan,  "am  persuaded  that  fortune 
does  more  for  men  than  prudence.  Do  you  not  every 
day  hear  of  persons  who  are  said  to  be  fortunate  or  un- 
fortunate? How  comes  it  that  this  opinion  should  pre- 
vail amongst  men,  if  it  be  not  justified  by  experience?" 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  dispute  with  Your  Majesty,"  re- 
plied the  prudent  vizier. 

"Speak  your  mind  freely;  I  desire  and  command 
it,"  said  the  sultan. 

"Then  I  am  of  opinion,"  answered  the  vizier,  "that 
people  are  often  led  to  believe  others  fortunate  or  unfor- 
tunate, merely  because  they  only  know  the  general  out- 
line of  their  histories;  and  are  ignorant  of  the  incidents 
and  events  in  which  they  have  shown  prudence  or  impru- 
dence. I  have  heard,  for  instance,  that  there  are  at  pres- 


MURAD  THE  UNLUCKY  1G5 

ent  in  this  city  two  men,  who  are  remarkable  for  their 
good  and  bad  fortune:  one  is  called  'Murad  the  Un- 
lucky,' and  the  other  'Saladin  the  Lucky.'  Now  I  am  in- 
clined to  think,  if  we  could  hear  their  stories,  we  should 
find  that  one  is  a  prudent  and  the  other  an  imprudent 
character." 

"Where  do  these  men  live?"  interrupted  the  sultan. 
"  I  will  hear  their  histories  from  their  own  lips,  before  I 
sleep." 

"Murad  the  Unlucky  lives  in  the  next  square,"  said 
the  vizier. 

The  sultan  desired  to  go  thither  immediately. 
Scarcely  had  they  entered  the  square,  when  they  heard 
the  cry  of  loud  lamentations.  They  followed  the  sound 
till  they  came  to  a  house  of  which  the  door  was  open, 
and  where  there  was  a  man  tearing  his  turban  and 
weeping  bitterly.  They  asked  the  cause  of  his  distress, 
and  he  pointed  to  the  fragments  of  a  china  vase,  which 
lay  on  the  pavement  at  his  door. 

"This  seems  undoubtedly  to  be  beautiful  china," 
said  the  sultan,  taking  up  one  of  the  broken  pieces;  "but 
can  the  loss  of  a  china  vase  be  the  cause  of  such  violent 
grief  and  despair?  " 

"Ah,  gentlemen,"  said  the  oilier  of  the  vase,  suspend- 
ing his  lamentations,  and  looking  at  the  dress  of  the 
pretended  merchants,  "I  see  that  you  are  strangers :  you 
do  not  know  how  much  cause  I  have  for  grief  and  de- 
spair !  You  do  not  know  that  you  are  speaking  to  Murad 
the  Unlucky !  Were  you  to  hear  all  the  unfortunate  ac- 
cidents that  have  hap])ened  to  me,  from  the  time  I  was 
born  till  this  instant,  you  would  perhaps  pity  me,  and 
acknowledge  I  have  just  cause  for  despair." 

Curiosity  was  strongly  expressed  by  the  sultan;  and 
the  hope  of  obtaining  sympathy  inclined  Murad  to 


166  PLOT 

gratify  it,  by  the  recital  of  his  adventures.  "Gentle- 
men," said  he,  "I  scarcely  dare  invite  you  into  the  house 
of  such  an  unlucky  being  as  I  am;  but,  if  you  will  ven- 
ture to  take  a  night's  lodging  under  my  roof,  you  shall 
hear  at  your  leisure  the  story  of  my  misfortunes." 

The  sultan  and  the  vizier  excused  themselves  from 
spending  the  night  with  Murad;  saying  that  they  were 
obliged  to  proceed  to  their  khan,  where  they  should  be 
expected  by  their  companions :  but  they  begged  permis- 
sion to  repose  themselves  for  half  an  hour  in  his  house, 
and  besought  him  to  relate  the  history  of  his  life,  if  it 
would  not  renew  his  grief  too  much  to  recollect  his  mis- 
fortunes. 

Few  men  are  so  miserable  as  not  to  like  to  talk  of 
their  misfortunes,  where  they  have,  or  where  they  think 
they  have,  any  chance  of  obtaining  compassion.  As  soon 
as  the  pretended  merchants  were  seated,  Murad  began 
his  story  in  the  following  manner:  — 

"My  father  was  a  merchant  of  this  city.  The  night 
before  I  w^as  born,  he  dreamed  that  I  came  into  the 
world  wuth  the  head  of  a  dog  and  the  tail  of  a  dragon; 
and  that,  in  haste  to  conceal  my  deformity,  he  rolled  me 
up  in  a  piece  of  linen,  which  unluckily  proved  to  be  the 
grand  seignior's  turban;  who,  enraged  at  his  insolence 
in  touching  his  turban,  commanded  that  his  head  should 
be  struck  off. 

"My  father  awaked  before  he  lost  his  head,  but  not 
before  he  had  lost  half  his  wits  from  the  terror  of  his 
dream.  He  considered  it  as  a  warning  sent  from  above, 
and  consequently  determined  to  avoid  the  sight  of  me. 
He  would  not  stay  to  see  whether  I  should  really  be  born 
with  the  head  of  a  dog  and  the  tail  of  a  dragon;  but  he 
set  out,  the  next  morning,  on  a  voyage  to  Aleppo. 

"He  was  absent  for  upwards  of  seven  years;  and 


MURAD  THE  UNLUCKY  167 

during  that  time  my  education  was  totally  neglected. 
One  day  I  inquired  from  my  mother  why  I  had  been 
named  Murad  the  Unlucky.  She  told  me  that  this 
name  was  given  to  me  in  consequence  of  my  father's 
dream;  but  she  added  that  perhaps  it  might  be  for- 
gotten, if  I  proved  fortunate  in  my  future  life.  My 
nurse,  a  very  old  woman,  who  was  present,  shook  her 
head,  with  a  look  which  I  shall  never  forget,  and  whis- 
pered to  my  mother  loud  enough  for  me  to  hear,  'Un- 
lucky he  was,  and  is,  and  ever  will  be.  Those  that  are 
born  to  ill  luck  cannot  help  themselves;  nor  can  any, 
but  the  great  prophet  Mahomet  himself,  do  anything 
for  them.  It  is  a  folly  for  an  unlucky  person  to  strive 
with  his  fate:  it  is  better  to  yield  to  it  at  once.' 

"This  speech  made  a  terrible  impression  upon  me, 
young  as  I  then  was;  and  every  accident  that  happened 
to  me  afterwards  confirmed  my  belief  in  my  nurse's 
prognostic.  I  was  in  my  eighth  year  when  my  father 
returned  from  abroad.  The  year  after  he  came  home 
my  brother  Saladin  was  born,  who  was  named  Saladin 
the  Lucky,  because  the  day  he  was  born  a  vessel  freighted 
with  rich  merchandise  for  my  father  arrived  safely  in 
port. 

"I  will  not  weary  you  with  a  relation  of  all  the  little 
instances  of  good  fortune  by  which  my  brother  Saladin 
was  distinguished,  even  during  his  childhood.  As  he 
grew  up,  his  success  in  everything  he  undertook  was  as 
remarkable  as  my  ill  luck  in  all  that  I  attempted.  From 
the  time  the  rich  vessel  arrived,  we  lived  in  splendor; 
and  the  supposed  i)rosperous  state  of  my  father's  affairs 
was  of  course  attributed  to  the  influence  of  my  brother 
Saladin's  happy  destiny. 

"When  Saladin  was  about  twenty,  my  father  was 
taken  dangerously  ill;  and  as  he  felt  that  he  should  not 


168  PLOT 

recover,  he  sent  for  my  brother  to  the  side  of  his  bed, 
and,  to  his  great  surprise,  informed  him  that  the  mag- 
nificence in  which  we  had  Hved  had  exhausted  all  his 
wealth;  that  his  affairs  were  in  the  greatest  disorder; 
for,  having  trusted  to  the  hope  of  continual  success,  he 
had  embarked  in  projects  beyond  his  powers. 

"The  sequel  v/as,  he  had  nothing  remaining  to  leave 
to  his  children,  but  two  large  china  vases,  remarkable 
for  their  beauty,  but  still  more  valuable  on  account  of 
certain  verses  inscribed  upon  them  in  an  unknown 
character,  which  was  supposed  to  operate  as  a  talisman 
or  charm  in  favor  of  their  possessors. 

"Both  these  vases  my  father  bequeathed  to  my 
brother  Saladin;  declaring  he  could  not  venture  to  leave 
either  of  them  to  me,  because  I  was  so  unlucky  that  I 
should  inevitably  break  it.  After  his  death,  however, 
my  brother  Saladin,  who  was  blessed  with  a  generous 
temper,  gave  me  my  choice  of  the  two  vases;  and  en- 
deavored to  raise  my  spirits,  by  repeating  frequently 
that  he  had  no  faith  either  in  good  fortune  or  ill  fortune. 

"I  could  not  be  of  his  opinion,  though  I  felt  and 
acknowledged  his  kindness  in  trying  to  persuade  me  out 
of  my  settled  melancholy.  I  knew  it  was  in  vain  for 
me  to  exert  myself,  because  I  was  sure  that,  do  what 
I  would,  I  should  still  be  Murad  the  Unlucky.  My 
brother,  on  the  contrary,  was  nowise  cast  down,  even 
by  the  poverty  in  which  my  father  left  us:  he  said  he 
was  sure  he  should  find  some  means  of  maintaining  him- 
self, and  so  he  did. 

"On  examining  our  china  vases,  he  found  in  them  a 
powder  of  a  bright  scarlet  color;  and  it  occurred  to  him 
that  it  would  make  a  fine  dye.  He  tried  it,  and  after 
some  trouble,  it  succeeded  to  admiration. 

"During  my  father's  lifetime,  my  mother  had  been 


MURAD  THE  UNLUCKY  169 

supplied  with  rich  dresses  by  one  of  the  merchants  who 
was  employed  by  the  ladies  of  the  grand  seignior's  se- 
raglio. My  brother  had  done  this  merchant  some  trifling 
favors;  and,  upon  application  to  him,  he  readily  en- 
gaged to  recommend  the  new  scarlet  dye.  Indeed,  it 
was  so  beautiful,  that,  the  moment  it  was  seen,  it  was 
preferred  to  every  other  color.  Saladin's  shop  was  soon 
crowded  with  customers;  and  his  winning  manners  and 
pleasant  conversation  were  almost  as  advantageous  to 
him  as  his  scarlet  dye.  On  the  contrary,  I  observed  that 
the  first  glance  at  my  melancholy  countenance  was  suf- 
ficient to  disgust  every  one  who  saw  me.  I  perceived  this 
plainly;  and  it  only  confirmed  me  the  more  in  my  be- 
lief in  my  own  evil  destiny. 

"It  happened  one  day  that  a  lady,  richly  apparelled 
and  attended  by  two  female  slaves,  came  to  my  brother's 
house  to  make  some  purchases.  He  was  out,  and  I 
alone  was  left  to  attend  to  the  shop.  After  she  had 
looked  over  some  goods,  she  chanced  to  see  my  china 
vase,  which  was  in  the  room.  She  took  a  prodigious 
fancy  to  it,  and  offered  me  any  price  if  I  would  part 
with  it;  but  this  I  declined  doing,  because  I  believed 
that  I  should  draw  down  upon  my  head  some  dreadful 
calamity,  if  I  voluntarily  relinquished  the  talisman.  Ir- 
ritated by  my  refusal,  the  lady,  according  to  the  custom 
of  her  sex,  became  more  resolute  in  her  purpose;  but 
neither  entreaties  nor  money  could  change  my  deter- 
mination. Provoked  beyond  measure  at  my  obstinacy, 
as  she  called  it,  she  left  the  house. 

"On  my  brother's  return,  I  related  to  him  what  had 
happened,  and  expected  that  he  would  have  praised  me 
for  my  prudence;  but,  on  the  contrary,  he  blamed  me 
for  the  superstitious  value  I  set  upon  the  verses  on  my 
vase;  and  observed  that  it  would  be  the  height  of  folly 


170  PLOT 

to  lose  a  certain  means  of  advancing  my  fortune,  for  the 
uncertain  hope  of  magical  protection.  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  be  of  his  opinion;  I  had  not  the  courage  to 
follow  the  advice  he  gave.  The  next  day  the  lady  re- 
turned, and  my  brother  sold  his  vase  to  her  for  ten 
thousand  pieces  of  gold.  This  money  he  laid  out  in  the 
most  advantageous  manner,  by  purchasing  a  new  stock 
of  merchandise.  I  repented,  when  it  was  too  late;  but 
I  believe  it  is  part  of  the  fatality  attending  certain  per- 
sons, that  they  cannot  decide  rightly  at  the  proper  mo- 
ment. When  the  opportunity  has  been  lost,  I  have 
always  regretted  that  I  did  not  do  exactly  the  contrary 
to  what  I  had  previously  determined  upon.  Often,  whilst 
I  was  hesitating,  the  favorable  moment  passed.  Npw 
this  is  what  I  call  being  unlucky.  But  to  proceed  with 
my  story. 

"The  lady,  who  bought  my  brother  Saladin's  vase, 
was  the  favorite  of  the  sultan,  and  all-powerful  in  the 
seraglio.  Her  dislike  to  me,  in  consequence  of  my  oppo- 
sition to  her  wishes,  was  so  violent,  that  she  refused  to 
return  to  my  brother's  house  while  I  remained  there. 
He  was  unwilling  to  part  with  me;  but  I  could  not  bear 
to  be  the  ruin  of  so  good  a  brother.  Without  telling  him 
my  design,  I  left  his  house,  careless  of  what  should  be- 
come of  me.  Hunger,  however,  soon  compelled  me  to 
think  of  some  immediate  mode  of  obtaining  relief.  I 
sat  down  upon  a  stone,  before  the  door  of  a  baker's  shop ; 
the  smell  of  hot  bread  tempted  me  in,  and  with  a  feeble 
voice  I  demanded  charity. 

"The  master  baker  gave  me  as  much  bread  as  I  could 
eat,  upon  condition  that  I  should  change  dresses  with 
him,  and  carry  the  rolls  for  him  through  the  city  this 
day.  To  this  I  readily  consented;  but  I  had  soon  rea- 
son to  repent  of  my  compliance.    Indeed,  if  my  ill  luck 


MURAD  THE  UNLUCKY  171 

had  not,  as  usual,  deprived  me  at  this  critical  moment 
of  memory  and  judgment,  I  should  never  have  complied 
with  the  baker's  treacherous  proposal.  For  some  time 
before,  the  people  of  Constantinople  had  been  much 
dissatisfied  with  the  weight  and  quality  of  the  bread 
furnished  by  the  bakers.  This  species  of  discontent  has 
often  been  the  sure  forerunner  of  an  insurrection;  and, 
in  these  disturbances,  the  master  bakers  frequently  lose 
their  lives.  All  these  circumstances  I  knew;  but  they 
did  not  occur  to  my  memory,  when  they  might  have  been 
useful. 

"I  changed  dresses  vdih  the  baker;  but  scarcely  had 
I  proceeded  through  the  adjoining  streets  with  my  rolls, 
before  the  mob  began  to  gather  round  me,  with  re- 
proaches and  execrations.  The  crowd  pursued  me  even 
to  the  gates  of  the  grand  seignior's  palace;  and  the 
grand  vizier,  alarmed  at  their  violence,  sent  out  an 
order  to  have  my  head  struck  off;  the  usual  remedy,  in 
such  cases,  being  to  strike  off  the  baker's  head. 

"I  now  fell  upon  my  knees,  and  protested  I  was  not 
the  baker  for  whom  they  took  me;  that  I  had  no  con- 
nection with  him;  and  that  I  had  never  furnished  the 
people  of  Constantinople  with  bread  that  was  not  weight. 
I  declared  I  had  merely  changed  clothes  with  a  master 
baker,  for  this  day;  and  that  I  should  not  have  done  so, 
but  for  the  evil  destiny  which  governs  all  my  actions. 
Some  of  the  mob  exclaimed  that  I  deserved  to  lose  my 
head  for  my  folly;  but  others  took  pity  on  me,  and 
whilst  the  officer,  who  was  sent  to  execute  the  vizier's 
order,  turned  to  speak  to  some  of  the  noisy  rioters,  those 
who  were  touched  by  my  misfortime  opened  a  passage 
for  me  through  the  crowd,  and,  thus  favored,  I  effected 
my  escape. 

"  I  quitted  Constantinople :  my  vase  I  had  left  in  the 


172  PLOT 

care  of  my  brother.  At  some  miles'  distance  from  the 
city,  I  overtook  a  party  of  soldiers.  I  joined  them;  and 
learning  that  they  were  going  to  embark  with  the  rest 
of  the  grand  seignior's  army  for  Egypt,  I  resolved  to 
accompany  them.  If  it  be,  thought' I,  the  will  of  Maho- 
met that  I  should  perish,  the  sooner  I  meet  my  fate  the 
better.  The  despondency  into  which  I  was  sunk  was 
attended  by  so  great  a  degree  of  indolence,  that  I  scarcely 
would  take  the  necessary  means  to  preserve  my  existence. 
During  our  passage  to  Egypt,  I  sat  all  day  long  upon  the 
deck  of  the  vessel,  smoking  my  pipe;  and  I  am  convinced 
that  if  a  storm  had  risen,  as  I  expected,  I  should  not 
have  taken  my  pipe  from  my  mouth,  nor  should  I  have 
handled  a  rope,  to  save  myself  from  destruction.  Such 
is  the  effect  of  that  species  of  resignation  or  torpor, 
whichever  you  please  to  call  it,  to  which  my  strong  be- 
lief in  fatality  had  reduced  my  mind. 

"We  landed,  however,  safely,  contrary  to  my  melan- 
choly forebodings.  By  a  trifling  accident,  not  worth 
relating,  I  was  detained  longer  than  any  of  my  compan- 
ions in  the  vessel  when  we  disembarked;  and  I  did  not 
arrive  at  the  camp  till  late  at  night.  It  was  moonlight, 
and  I  could  see  the  whole  scene  distinctly.  There  was 
a  vast  number  of  small  tents  scattered  over  a  desert  of 
white  sand;  a  few  date  trees  were  visible  at  a  distance; 
all  was  gloomy,  and  all  still;  no  sound  was  to  be  heard 
but  that  of  the  camels,  feeding  near  the  tents;  and,  as  I 
walked  on,  I  met  with  no  human  creature. 

"My  pipe  was  now  out,  and  I  quickened  my  pace  a 
little  towards  a  fire,  which  I  saw  near  one  of  the  tents. 
As  I  proceeded,  my  eye  was  caught  by  something  spark- 
ling in  the  sand:  it  was  a  ring.  I  picked  it  up,  and  put 
it  on  my  finger,  resolving  to  give  it  to  the  public  crier 
the  next  morning,  who  might  find  out  its  rightful  owner; 


MURAD  THE  UNLUCKY  173 

but  by  ill  luck,  I  put  it  on  my  little  finger,  for  which  it 
was  much  too  large;  and  as  I  hastened  towards  the  fire 
to  light  my  pipe,  I  dropped  the  ring.  I  stooped  to  search 
for  it  amongst  the  provender  on  which  a  mule  was  feed- 
ing; and  the  cursed  animal  gave  me  so  violent  a  kick  on 
the  head  that  I  could  not  help  roaring  aloud. 

"My  cries  awakened  those  who  slept  in  the  tent,  near 
which  the  mule  was  feeding.  Provoked  at  being  dis- 
turbed, the  soldiers  were  ready  enough  to  think  ill  of 
me;  and  they  took  it  for  granted  that  I  was  a  thief,  who 
had  stolen  the  ring  I  pretended  to  have  just  found.  The 
ring  was  taken  from  me  by  force;  and  the  next  day  I 
was  bastinadoed  for  having  found  it:  the  officer  persist- 
ing in  the  belief  that  stripes  would  make  me  confess 
where  I  had  concealed  certain  other  articles  of  value, 
which  had  lately  been  missed  in  the  camp.  All  this  was 
the  consequence  of  my  being  in  a  hurry  to  light  my  pipe, 
and  of  my  having  put  the  ring  on  a  finger  that  was  too 
little  for  it;  which  no  one  but  Murad  the  Unlucky  would 
have  done. 

"When  I  was  able  to  walk  again  after  my  wounds 
were  healed,  I  went  into  one  of  the  tents  distinguished 
by  a  red  flag,  having  been  told  that  these  were  coffee- 
houses. Whilst  I  was  drinking  coffee,  I  heard  a  stranger 
near  me  complaining  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  recover 
a  valuable  ring  he  had  lost;  although  he  had  caused  his 
loss  to  be  published  for  three  days  by  the  public  crier, 
offering  a  reward  of  two  hundred  sequins  to  whoever 
should  restore  it.  I  guessed  that  this  was  the  very  ring 
which  I  had  unfortunately  found.  I  addressed  myself  to 
the  stranger,  and  promised  to  point  out  to  him  the  per- 
son who  had  forced  it  from  me.  The  stranger  recovered 
his  ring;  and,  being  convinced  that  I  had  acted  honestly, 
he  made  me  a  present  of  two  hundred  sequins,  as  some 


174  PLOT 

amends  for  the  punishment  which  I  had  unjustly  suf- 
fered on  his  account. 

"Now  you  would  imagine  that  this  purse  of  gold  was 
advantageous  to  me:  far  the  contrary;  it  was  the  cause 
of  new  misfortunes. 

"One  night,  when  I  thought  that  the  soldiers  who 
were  in  the  same  tent  with  me  were  all  fast  asleep,  I 
indulged  myself  in  the  pleasure  of  counting  my  treasure. 
The  next  day  I  was  invited  by  my  companions  to  drink 
sherbet  with  them.  What  they  mixed  with  the  sherbet 
which  I  drank,  I  know  not;  but  I  could  not  resist  the 
drowsiness  it  brought  on.  I  fell  into  a  profound  slum- 
ber; and,  when  I  awoke,  I  found  myself  lying  under  a 
date  tree,  at  some  distance  from  the  camp. 

"The  first  thing  I  thought  of,  when  I  came  to  my 
recollection,  was  my  purse  of  sequins.  The  purse  I 
found  still  safe  in  my  girdle;  but,  on  opening  it,  I  per- 
ceived that  it  was  filled  with  pebbles,  and  not  a  single 
sequin  was  left.  I  had  no  doubt  that  I  had  been  robbed 
by  the  soldiers  with  whom  I  had  drunk  sherbet;  and  I 
am  certain  that  some  of  them  must  have  been  awake  the 
night  I  counted  my  money;  otherwise,  as  I  had  never 
trusted  the  secret  of  my  riches  to  any  one,  they  could 
not  have  suspected  me  of  possessing  any  property;  for, 
ever  since  I  kept  company  with  them,  I  had  appeared 
to  be  in  great  indigence. 

"I  applied  in  vain  to  the  superior  officers  for  redress: 
the  soldiers  protested  they  were  innocent;  no  positive 
proof  appeared  against  them,  and  I  gained  nothing  by 
my  complaint  but  ridicule  and  ill  will.  I  called  myself, 
in  the  first  transport  of  my  grief,  by  that  name  which, 
since  my  arrival  in  Egypt,  I  had  avoided  to  pronounce : 
I  called  myself  Murad  the  Unlucky !  The  name  and  the 
story  ran  through  the  camp;  and  I  was  accosted  after- 


MURAD  TIIE  UNLUCKY  175 

wards,  very  frequently,  by  this  appellation.  Some,  in- 
deed, varied  their  wit  by  calling  nie  Murad  with  the 
Purse  of  Pebbles. 

"All  that  I  had  yet  suffered  is  nothing  compared  to 
my  succeeding  misfortunes. 

"It  was  the  custom  at  this  time,  in  the  Turkish  camp, 
for  the  soldiers  to  amuse  themselves  with  firing  at  a 
mark.  The  superior  officers  remonstrated  against  this 
dangerous  practice,  but  ineffectually.  Sometimes  a  party 
of  soldiers  would  stop  firing  for  a  few  minutes,  after  a 
message  was  brought  them  from  their  commanders;  and 
then  they  would  begin  again,  in  defiance  of  all  orders. 
Such  was  the  want  of  discipline  in  our  army,  that  this 
disobedience  went  unpunished.  In  the  mean  time,  the 
frequency  of  the  danger  made  most  men  totally  regard- 
less of  it.  I  have  seen  tents  pierced  wuth  bullets,  in  which 
parties  were  quietly  seated  smoking  their  pipes,  whilst 
those  without  were  preparing  to  take  fresh  aim  at  the 
red  flag  on  the  top. 

"This  apathy  proceeded,  in  some,  from  unconquer- 
able indolence  of  body;  in  others,  from  the  intoxication 
produced  by  the  fumes  of  tobacco  and  of  opium;  but  in 
most  of  my  brother  Turks  it  arose  from  the  confidence 
which  the  belief  in  predestination  inspired.  When  a  bul- 
let killed  one  of  their  companions,  they  only  observed, 
scarcely  taking  the  pipes  from  their  mouths,  '  Our  hour 
is  not  yet  come:  it  is  not  the  will  of  Mahomet  that  we 
should  fall.' 

"  I  own  that  this  rash  security  appeared  to  me,  at  first, 
surprising;  but  it  soon  ceased  to  strike  me  with  wonder; 
and  it  even  tended  to  confirm  my  favorite  opinion,  that 
some  were  born  to  good  and  some  to  evil  fortune.  I 
became  almost  as  careless  as  my  companions,  from  fol- 
lowing the  same  course  of  reasoning.   It  is  not,  thought 


170  PLOT 

I,  in  the  power  of  human  prudence  to  avert  the  stroke 
of  destiny.  I  shall  perhaps  die  to-morrow;  let  me  there- 
for enjoy  to-day. 

"I  now  made  it  my  study,  every  day,  to  procure  as 
much  amusement  as  possible.  My  poverty,  as  you  will 
imagine,  restricted  me  from  indulgence  and  excess;  but 
I  soon  found  means  to  spend  what  did  not  actually  be- 
long to  me.  There  were  certain  Jews  who  were  follow- 
ers of  the  camp,  and  who,  calculating  on  the  probability 
of  victory  for  our  troops,  advanced  money  to  the  sol- 
diers; for  which  they  engaged  to  pay  these  usurers  exor- 
bitant interest.  The  Jew  to  whom  I  applied  traded  with 
me  also  upon  the  belief  that  my  brother  Saladin,  with 
whose  character  and  circumstances  he  was  acquainted, 
would  pay  my  debts,  if  I  should  fall.  With  the  money 
I  raised  from  the  Jew  I  continually  bought  coffee  and 
opium,  of  which  I  grew  immoderately  fond.  In  the  de- 
lirium it  created,  I  forgot  all  my  misfortunes,  all  fear  of 
the  future. 

"One  day,  when  I  had  raised  my  spirits  by  an  unus- 
ual quantity  of  opium,  I  was  strolling  through  the  camp, 
sometimes  singing,  sometimes  dancing,  like  a  madman, 
and  repeating  that  I  was  not  now  Murad  the  Unlucky. 
Whilst  these  words  were  on  my  lips,  a  friendly  spectator, 
who  was  in  possession  of  his  sober  senses,  caught  me 
by  the  arm,  and  attempted  to  drag  me  from  the  place 
where  I  was  exposing  myself.  'Do  you  not  see,'  said 
he,  'those  soldiers,  who  are  firing  at  a  mark?  I  saw  one 
of  them,  just  now,  deliberately  taking  aim  at  your  tur- 
ban; and,  observe,  he  is  now  reloading  his  piece.'  My 
ill  luck  prevailed  even  at  this  instant,  the  only  instant 
in  my  life  when  I  defied  its  power.  I  struggled  with  my 
adviser,  repeating,  'I  am  not  the  wretch  you  take  me 
for;  I  am  not  Murad  the  Unlucky.'   He  fled  from  the 


MURAD  THE  UNLUCKY  177 

danger  himself:  I  remained,  and  in  a  few  seconds  after- 
wards a  ball  reached  me,  and  I  fell  senseless  on  the 
sand. 

"The  ball  was  cut  out  of  my  body  by  an  awkward 
surgeon,  who  gave  me  ten  times  more  pain  than  was  ne- 
cessary. He  was  particularly  hurried,  at  this  time,  be- 
cause the  army  had  just  received  orders  to  march  in  a 
few  hours,  and  all  was  confusion  in  the  camp.  My 
wound  was  excessively  painful,  and  the  fear  of  being 
left  behind  with  those  who  were  deemed  incurable  added 
to  my  torments.  Perhaps,  if  I  had  kept  myself  quiet,  I 
might  have  escaped  some  of  the  evils  I  afterwards  en- 
dured; but,  as  I  have  repeatedly  told  you,  gentlemen, 
it  was  my  ill  fortune  never  to  be  able  to  judge  what  was 
best  to  be  done,  till  the  time  for  prudence  was  past. 

"During  that  day,  when  my  fever  was  at  the  height, 
and  when  my  orders  were  to  keep  my  bed,  contrary  to 
my  natural  habits  of  indolence,  I  rose  a  hundred  times, 
and  went  out  of  my  tent  in  the  very  heat  of  the  day, 
to  satisfy  my  curiosity  as  to  the  number  of  the  tents 
which  had  not  been  struck,  and  of  the  soldiers  who  had 
not  yet  marched.  The  orders  to  march  were  tardily 
obeyed,  and  many  hours  elapsed  before  our  encampment 
was  raised.  Had  I  submitted  to  my  surgeon's  orders,  I 
might  have  been  in  a  state  to  accompany  the  most  dila- 
tory of  the  stragglers;  I  could  have  borne,  perhaps,  the 
slow  motion  of  a  litter,  on  which  some  of  the  sick  were 
transported;  but  in  the  evening,  when  the  surgeon  came 
to  dress  my  wounds,  he  found  me  in  such  a  situation 
that  it  w^as  scarcely  possible  to  remove  me. 

"He  desired  a  party  of  soldiers,  who  were  left  to 
bring  up  the  rear,  to  call  for  me  the  next  morning. 
They  did  so;  but  they  wanted  to  put  me  upon  the  mule 
which  I  recollected,  by  a  white  streak  on  its  back,  to  be 


178  PLOT 

the  cursed  animal  that  had  kicked  me  whilst  I  was  look- 
ing for  the  ring.  I  could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  go  upon 
this  unlucky  animal.  I  tried  to  persuade  the  soldiers 
to  carry  me,  and  they  took  me  a  little  way;  but,  soon 
growing  weary  of  their  burden,  they  laid  me  down  on 
the  sand,  pretending  that  they  were  going  to  fill  a  skin 
with  water  at  a  spring  they  had  discovered,  and  bade 
me  lie  still,  and  wait  for  their  return. 

"I  waited  and  waited,  longing  for  the  water  to  mois- 
ten my  parched  lips;  but  no  water  came,  —  no  soldiers 
returned;  and  there  I  lay,  for  several  hours,  expecting 
every  moment  to  breathe  my  last.  I  made  no  effort  to 
move,  for  I  was  now  convinced  my  hour  was  come,  and 
that  it  was  the  will  of  Mahomet  that  I  should  perish  in 
this  miserable  manner,  and  lie  unburied  like  a  dog;  a 
death,  thought  I,  worthy  of  Murad  the  Unlucky. 

"My  forebodings  were  not  this  time  just;  a  detach- 
ment of  English  soldiers  passed  near  the  place  where  I 
lay :  my  groans  were  heard  by  them,  and  they  humanely 
came  to  my  assistance.  They  carried  me  with  them, 
dressed  my  wound,  and  treated  me  with  the  utmost  ten- 
derness. Christians  though  they  were,  I  must  acknowl- 
edge that  I  had  reason  to  love  them  better  than  any 
of  the  followers  of  Mahomet,  my  good  brother  only 
excepted. 

"Under  their  care  I  recovered;  but  scarcely  had  I 
regained  my  strength  before  I  fell  into  new  disasters. 
It  was  hot  weather,  and  my  thirst  was  excessive.  I  went 
out  with  a  party,  in  hopes  of  finding  a  spring  of  water. 
The  English  soldiers  began  to  dig  for  a  well,  in  a  place 
pointed  out  to  them  by  one  of  their  men  of  science.  I 
was  not  inclined  to  such  hard  labor,  but  preferred  saun- 
tering on  in  search  of  a  spring,  I  saw  at  a  distance 
something  that  looked  like  a  pool  of  water;  and  I 


MURAD  TIIE  UNLUCKY  179 

pointed  it  out  to  my  companions.  Their  man  of  science 
warned  me  by  his  interpreter  not  to  trust  to  this  deceit- 
ful appearance;  for  that  such  were  common  in  this 
country,  and  that,  when  I  came  close  to  the  spot,  I 
should  find  no  water  there.  He  added  that  it  was  at  a 
greater  distance  than  I  imagined;  and  that  I  should,  in 
all  probability,  be  lost  in  the  desert,  if  I  attempted  to 
follow  this  phantom, 

"I  was  so  unfortunate  as  not  to  attend  to  his  advice: 
I  set  out  in  pursuit  of  this  accursed  delusion,  which 
assuredly  was  the  work  of  evil  spirits,  who  clouded  my 
reason,  and  allured  me  into  their  dominion.  I  went  on, 
hour  after  hour,  in  expectation  continually  of  reaching 
the  object  of  my  wishes;  but  it  fled  faster  than  I  pur- 
sued, and  I  discovered  at  last  that  the  Englishman,  who 
had  doubtless  gained  his  information  from  the  people 
of  the  country,  was  right;  and  that  the  shining  appear- 
ance, which  I  had  taken  for  water,  was  a  mere  deception. 

" I  was  no w  exhausted  with  fatigue:  I  looked  back  in 
vain  after  the  com})anions  I  had  left;  I  could  see  neither 
men,  animals,  nor  any  trace  of  vegetation  in  the  sandy 
desert.  I  had  no  resource  but,  weary  as  I  was,  to  meas- 
ure back  my  footsteps,  which  were  imprinted  in  the 
sand. 

"I  slowly  and  sorrowfully  traced  them  as  my  guides 
in  this  unknown  land.  Instead  of  yielding  to  my  indo- 
lent inclinations,  I  ought,  however,  to  have  made  the 
best  of  my  way  back,  before  the  evening  breeze  sprung 
up.  I  felt  the  breeze  rising,  and,  unconscious  of  my 
danger,  I  rejoiced,  and  opened  my  bosom  to  meet  it;  but 
what  was  my  dismay  when  I  saw  that  the  wind  swept 
before  it  all  trace  of  my  footsteps  in  the  sand.  I  knew 
not  which  way  to  i)roceed;  I  was  struck  with  despair, 
tore  my  garments,  threw  off  my  turban,  and  cried  aloud; 


180  PLOT 

but  neither  human  voice  nor  echo  answered  me.  The 
silence  was  dreadful.  I  had  tasted  no  food  for  many 
hours,  and  I  now  became  sick  and  faint.  I  recollected 
that  I  had  put  a  supply  of  opium  into  the  folds  of  my 
turban ;  but,  alas !  when  I  took  my  turban  up,  I  found 
that  the  opium  had  fallen  out.  I  searched  for  it  in  vain 
on  the  sand,  where  I  had  thrown  the  turban, 

"I  stretched  myself  out  upon  the  ground,  and  yielded 
without  further  struggle  to  my  evil  destiny.  What  I 
suffered  from  thirst,  hunger,  and  heat  cannot  be  de- 
scribed! At  last  I  fell  into  a  sort  of  trance,  during 
which  images  of  various  kinds  seemed  to  flit  before  my 
eyes.  How  long  I  remained  in  this  state  I  know  not; 
but  I  remember  that  I  was  brought  to  my  senses  by  a 
loud  shout,  which  came  from  persons  belonging  to  a  car- 
avan returning  from  Mecca.  This  was  a  shout  of  joy 
for  their  safe  arrival  at  a  certain  spring,  well  known  to 
them  in  this  part  of  the  desert. 

"  The  spring  was  not  a  hundred  yards  from  the  spot 
where  I  lay;  yet,  such  had  been  the  fate  of  Murad  the 
Unlucky,  that  he  missed  the  reality,  whilst  he  had  been 
hours  in  pursuit  of  the  phantom.  Feeble  and  spiritless 
as  I  was,  I  sent  forth  as  loud  a  cry  as  I  could,  in  hopes 
of  obtaining  assistance;  and  I  endeavored  to  crawl  to 
the  place  from  which  the  voices  appeared  to  come.  The 
caravan  rested  for  a  considerable  time  whilst  the  slaves 
filled  the  skins  with  water,  and  whilst  the  camels  took 
in  their  supply.  I  worked  myself  on  towards  them;  yet, 
notwithstanding  my  efforts,  I  was  persuaded  that,  ac- 
cording to  my  usual  ill  fortune,  I  should  never  be  able  to 
make  them  hear  my  voice.  I  saw  them  mount  their 
camels!  I  took  off  my  turban,  unrolled  it,  and  waved  it 
in  the  air.  My  signal  was  seen!  The  caravan  came 
towards  me! 


MURAD  THE  UNLUCKY  181 

"I  had  scarcely  strength  to  speak:  a  slave  gave  me 
some  water;  and,  after  I  had  drunk,  I  explained  to  them 
who  I  was,  and  how  I  came  into  this  situation. 

"Whilst  I  was  speaking,  one  of  the  travellers  observed 
the  purse  which  hung  to  my  girdle :  it  was  the  same  the 
merchant,  for  whom  I  recovered  the  ring,  liad  given  to 
me;  I  had  carefully  preserved  it,  because  the  initials  of 
my  benefactor's  name,  and  a  passage  from  the  Koran, 
were  worked  upon  it.  ^Yhen  he  gave  it  to  me,  he  said 
that  perhaps  we  should  meet  again  in  some  other  part 
of  the  world,  and  he  should  recognize  me  by  this  token. 
The  person  who  now  took  notice  of  the  purse  was  his 
brother;  and  when  I  related  to  him  how  I  had  obtained 
it,  he  had  the  goodness  to  take  me  under  his  protection. 
He  was  a  merchant,  who  was  now  going  with  the  caravan 
to  Grand  Cairo:  he  offered  to  take  me  with  him,  and  I 
willingly  accepted  the  proposal,  promising  to  serve  him 
as  faithfully  as  any  of  his  slaves.  The  caravan  pro- 
ceeded, and  I  was  carried  with  it. 

II 

"The  merchant,  who  was  become  my  master,  treated 
me  with  great  kindness;  but,  on  hearing  me  relate  the 
whole  series  of  my  unfortunate  adventures,  he  exacted 
a  promise  from  me,  that  I  would  do  nothing  without  first 
consulting  him.  'Since  you  are  so  unlucky,  INIurad,' 
said  he,  '  that  you  always  choose  for  the  worst  when  you 
choose  for  yourself,  you  should  trust  entirely  to  the 
judgment  of  a  wiser  or  a  more  fortunate  friend.' 

"I  fared  well  in  the  service  of  this  merchant,  who 
was  a  man  of  mild  disposition,  and  who  was  so  rich 
that  he  could  afford  to  be  generous  to  all  his  dc])cndents. 
It  was  my  business  to  see  his  camels  loaded  and  un- 
loaded at  proi)er  places,  to  count  his  bales  of  merchan- 


182  PLOT 

dise,  and  to  take  care  that  they  were  not  mixed  with 
those  of  his  companions.  This  I  carefully  did,  till  the 
day  we  arrived  at  Alexandria;  when,  unluckily,  I  neg- 
lected to  count  the  bales,  taking  it  for  granted  that  they 
were  all  right,  as  I  had  found  them  so  the  preceding 
day.  However,  when  we  were  to  go  on  board  the  ves- 
sel that  was  to  take  us  to  Cairo,  I  perceived  that  three 
bales  of  cotton  were  missing. 

"I  ran  to  inform  my  master,  who,  though  a  good  deal 
provoked  at  my  negligence,  did  not  reproach  me  as  I 
deserved.  The  public  crier  was  immediately  sent  round 
the  city,  to  offer  a  reward  for  the  recovery  of  the  mer- 
chandise; and  it  was  restored  by  one  of  the  merchants' 
slaves,  with  whom  we  had  traveled.  The  vessel  was 
now  under  sail;  my  master  and  I  and  the  bales  of  cot- 
ton were  obliged  to  follow  in  a  boat;  and  when  we  were 
taken  on  board,  the  captain  declared  he  was  so  loaded 
that  he  could  not  tell  where  to  stow  the  bales  of  cotton. 
After  much  difficulty,  he  consented  to  let  them  remain 
upon  deck:  and  I  promised  my  master  to  watch  them 
night  and  day. 

"We  had  a  prosperous  voyage,  and  were  actually  in 
sight  of  shore,  which  the  captain  said  we  could  not  fail 
to  reach  early  the  next  morning.  I  stayed,  as  usual,  this 
night  upon  deck;  and  solaced  myself  by  smoking  my 
pipe.  Ever  since  I  had  indulged  in  this  practice  at 
the  camp  at  El  Arish,  I  could  not  exist  without  opium 
and  tobacco.  I  suppose  that  my  reason  was  this  night 
a  little  clouded  with  the  dose  I  took;  but,  towards  mid- 
night, I  was  sobered  by  terror.  I  started  up  from  the 
deck  on  which  I  had  stretched  myself;  my  turban  was 
in  flames;  the  bale  of  cotton  on  which  I  had  rested  was 
all  on  fire.  I  awakened  two  sailors,  who  were  fast 
asleep  on  deck.  The  consternation  became  general,  and 


MURAD  THE  UNLUCKY  183 

the  confusion  increased  the  danger.  The  captain  and  my 
master  were  the  most  active,  and  suffered  the  most  in 
extinguishing  the  flames:  my  master  was  terribly 
scorched. 

"For  my  part,  I  was  not  suffered  to  do  anything;  the 
captain  ordered  that  I  should  be  bound  to  the  mast ;  and, 
when  at  last  the  flames  were  extinguished,  the  passen- 
gers, with  on  accord,  besought  him  to  keep  me  bound 
hand  and  foot,  lest  I  should  be  the  cause  of  some  new 
disaster.  All  that  had  happened  was,  indeed,  occasioned 
by  my  ill  luck.  I  had  laid  my  pipe  down,  when  I  was 
falling  asleep,  upon  the  bale  of  cotton  that  was  beside 
me.  The  fire  from  my  pipe  fell  out,  and  set  the  cotton 
in  flames.  Such  was  the  mixture  of  rage  and  terror  w^ith 
which  I  had  inspired  the  whole  crew,  that  I  am  sure 
they  would  have  set  me  ashore  on  a  desert  island,  rather 
than  have  had  me  on  board  for  a  week  longer.  Even 
my  humane  master,  I  could  perceive,  was  secretly  im- 
patient to  get  rid  of  Murad  the  Unlucky,  and  his  evil 
fortune. 

"You  may  believe  that  I  was  heartily  glad  when  we 
landed,  and  when  I  was  unbound.  My  master  put  a 
purse  containing  fifty  sequins  into  my  hand,  and  bade 
me  farewell.  'Use  this  money  prudently,  Murad,  if  you 
can,'  said  he,  'and  perhajxs  your  fortune  may  change.' 
Of  this  I  had  little  hopes,  but  determined  to  lay  out  my 
money  as  prudently  as  possible. 

"As  I  was  walking  through  the  streets  of  Grand 
Cairo,  considering  how  I  should  lay  out  my  fifty  sequins 
to  the  greatest  advantage,  I  was  stopped  by  one  who 
called  me  by  my  name,  and  asked  me  if  I  could  pretend 
to  have  forgotten  his  face.  I  looked  steadily  at  him,  and 
recollected  to  my  sorrow  that  he  was  the  Jew  Rachub, 
from  whom  I  had  borrowed  certain  sums  of  money  at 


184  PLOT 

the  camp  at  El  Arish.  What  brought  him  to  Grand 
Cairo,  except  it  was  my  evil  destiny,  I  cannot  tell.  He 
would  not  quit  me;  he  would  take  no  excuses;  he  said 
he  knew  that  I  had  deserted  twice,  once  from  the  Turk- 
ish and  once  from  the  English  army;  that  I  was  not 
entitled  to  any  pay;  and  that  he  could  not  imagine  it 
possible  that  my  brother  Saladin  would  own  me,  or  pay 
my  debts. 

"I  replied,  for  I  was  vexed  by  the  insolence  of  this 
Jewish  dog,  that  I  was  not,  as  he  imagined,  a  beggar; 
that  I  had  the  means  of  paying  him  my  just  debt,  but 
that  I  hoped  he  would  not  extort  from  me  all  that  exor- 
bitant interest  which  none  but  a  Jew  could  exact.  He 
smiled,  and  answered  that,  if  a  Turk  loved  opium  better 
than  money,  this  was  no  fault  of  his;  that  he  had  sup- 
plied me  with  what  I  loved  best  in  the  world;  and  that 
I  ought  not  to  complain,  when  he  expected  I  should  re- 
turn the  favor. 

"I  will  not  weary  you,  gentlemen,  with  all  the  argu- 
ments that  passed  between  me  and  Rachub.  At  last  we 
compromised  matters;  he  would  take  nothing  less  than 
the  whole  debt :  but  he  let  me  have  at  a  very  cheap  rate 
a  chest  of  second-hand  clothes,  by  which  he  assured  me 
I  might  make  my  fortune.  He  brought  them  to  Grand 
Cairo,  he  said,  for  the  purpose  of  selling  them  to  slave- 
merchants,  who  at  this  time  of  the  year  were  in  want  of 
them  to  supply  their  slaves;  but  he  was  in  haste  to  get 
home  to  his  wife  and  family  at  Constantinople,  and 
therefore  he  was  willing  to  make  over  to  a  friend  the 
profits  of  this  speculation.  I  should  have  distrusted 
Rachub's  professions  of  friendship  and  especially  of  dis- 
interestedness; but  he  took  me  with  him  to  the  khan, 
where  his  goods  were,  and  unlocked  the  chest  of  clothes 
to  show  them  to  me.  They  were  of  the  richest  and  finest 


MURAD  THE  UNLUCKY  185 

materials,  and  had  been  but  little  worn.  I  could  not 
doubt  the  evidence  of  ray  senses;  the  bargain  was  con- 
cluded, and  the  Jew  sent  porters  to  my  inn  with  the 
chest. 

"The  next  day  I  repaired  to  the  public  market-place; 
and,  when  my  business  was  known,  I  had  choice  of  cus- 
tomers before  night :  my  chest  was  empty,  —  and  my 
purse  was  full.  The  profit  I  made  upon  the  sale  of 
these  clothes  was  so  considerable,  that  I  could  not  help 
feeling  astonishment  at  Rachub's  having  brought  him- 
self so  readily  to  relinquish  them. 

"A  few  days  after  I  had  disposed  of  the  contents  of 
my  chest,  a  Damascene  merchant,  who  had  bought  two 
suits  of  apparel  from  me,  told  me,  with  a  very  melan- 
choly face,  that  both  the  female  slaves  who  had  put  on 
these  clothes  were  sick.  I  could  not  conceive  that  the 
clothes  were  the  cause  of  their  sickness';  but  soon  after- 
wards, as  I  was  crossing  the  market,  I  was  attacked  by 
at  least  a  dozen  merchants,  who  made  similar  com- 
plaints. They  insisted  upon  knowing  how  I  came  by  the 
garments,  and  demanded  whether  I  had  worn  any  of 
them  myself.  This  day  I  had  for  the  first  time  indulged 
myself  with  wearing  a  pair  of  yellow  slippers,  the  only 
finery  I  had  reserved  for  myself  out  of  all  the  tempting 
goods.  Convinced  by  my  wearing  these  slippers  that  I 
could  have  had  no  insidious  designs,  since  I  shared  the 
danger,  whatever  it  might  be,  the  merchants  were  a 
little  pacified;  but  what  was  my  terror  and  remorse  the 
next  day,  when  one  of  them  came  to  inform  me  that 
plague-boils  had  broken  out  under  the  arms  of  all  the 
slaves  who  had  worn  this  pestilential  apparel !  On  look- 
ing carefully  into  the  chest,  we  found  the  word  Smyrna 
written,  and  half  effaced,  upon  the  lid.  Now,  the  plague 
had  for  some  time  raged  at  Smyrna;  and,  as  the  mer- 


186  PLOT 

chants  suspected,  these  clothes  had  certainly  belonged 
to  persons  who  had  died  of  that  distemper.  This  was  the 
reason  why  the  Jew  was  willing  to  sell  them  to  me  so 
cheap;  and  it  was  for  this  reason  that  he  would  not  stay 
at  Grand  Cairo  himself  to  reap  the  profits  of  his  specula- 
tion. Indeed,  if  I  had  paid  attention  to  it  at  the  proper 
time,  a  slight  circumstance  might  have  revealed  the 
truth  to  me.  Whilst  I  was  bargaining  with  the  Jew,  be- 
fore he  opened  the  chest,  he  swallowed  a  large  dram  of 
brandy,  and  stuffed  his  nostrils  with  sponge  dipped  in 
vinegar :  this  he  told  me  he  did  to  prevent  his  perceiving 
the  smell  of  musk,  which  always  threw  him  into  convul- 
sions. 

"The  horror  I  felt,  when  I  discovered  that  I  had 
spread  the  infection  of  the  plague,  and  that  I  had  prob- 
ably caught  it  myself,  overpowered  my  senses;  a  cold 
dew  spread  over  all  my  limbs,  and  I  fell  upon  the  lid 
of  the  fatal  chest  in  a  swoon.  It  is  said  that  fear  dis- 
poses people  to  take  the  infection ;  however  this  may  be, 
I  sickened  that  evening,  and  soon  was  in  a  raging  fever. 
It  was  worse  for  me  whenever  the  delirium  left  me,  and 
I  could  reflect  upon  the  miseries  my  ill  fortune  had 
occasioned.  In  my  first  lucid  interval,  I  looked  round 
and  saw  that  I  had  been  removed  from  the  khan  to  a 
wretched  hut.  An  old  woman,  who  was  smoking  her 
pipe  in  the  farthest  corner  of  my  room,  informed  me 
that  I  had  been  sent  out  of  the  town  of  Grand  Cairo  by 
order  of  the  cadi,  to  whom  the  merchants  had  made  their 
complaint.  The  fatal  chest  was  burned,  and  the  house  in 
which  I  had  lodged  razed  to  the  ground.  'And  if  it 
had  not  been  for  me/  continued  the  old  woman,  'you 
would  have  been  dead,  probably,  at  this  instant;  but  I 
have  made  a  vow  to  our  great  prophet,  that  I  would 
never  neglect  an  opportunity  of  doing  a  good  action; 


MURAD  THE  UNLUCKY  187 

therefore,  when  you  were  deserted  by  all  the  world, 
I  took  care  of  you.  Here,  too,  is  your  purse,  which  I 
saved  from  the  rabble;  and,  what  is  more  difficult,  from 
the  officers  of  justice:  I  will  account  to  you  for  every 
para  that  I  have  expended;  and  will  moreover  tell  you 
the  reason  of  my  making  such  an  extraordinary  vow. 

"As  I  believed  that  this  benevolent  old  woman  took 
great  pleasure  in  talking,  I  made  an  inclination  of  my 
head  to  thank  her  for  her  promised  history,  and  she  pro- 
ceeded; but  I  must  confess  I  did  not  listen  with  all  the 
attention  her  narrative  doubtless  deserved.  Even  curi- 
osity, the  strongest  passion  of  us  Turks,  was  dead  within 
me.  I  have  no  recollection  of  the  old  woman's  story. 
It  is  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  finish  my  own. 

"The  weather  became  excessively  hot;  it  was  affirmed, 
by  some  of  the  physicians,  that  this  heat  would  prove 
fatal  to  their  patients;  but,  contrary  to  the  prognostics 
of  the  physicians,  it  stopped  the  progress  of  the  plague. 
I  recovered,  and  found  my  purse  much  lightened  by  my 
illness.  I  divided  the  remainder  of  my  money  with  my 
humane  nurse,  and  sent  her  out  into  the  city,  to  inquire 
how  matters  were  going  on. 

"She  brought  me  word  that  the  fury  of  the  plague 
had  much  abated;  but  that  she  had  met  several  funerals, 
and  that  she  had  heard  many  of  the  merchants  cursing 
the  folly  of  Murad  the  Unlucky,  who,  as  they  said,  had 
brought  all  this  calamity  upon  the  inhabitants  of  Cairo. 
Even  fools,  they  say,  learn  by  experience.  I  took  care 
to  burn  the  bed  on  which  I  had  lain,  and  the  clothes  I 
had  worn:  I  concealed  my  real  name,  which  I  knew 
would  inspire  detesta,tion,  and  gained  admittance,  with 
a  crowd  of  other  poor  wretches,  into  a  lazaretto,  where  I 
performed  quarantine,  and  offered  up  prayers  daily  for 
the  sick. 


188  PLOT 

"When  I  thought  it  was  impossible  I  could  spread 
the  infection,  I  took  my  passage  home.  I  was  eager  to 
get  aWay  from  Grand  Cairo,  where  I  knew  I  was  an 
object  of  execration.  I  had  a  strange  fancy  haunting  my 
mind;  I  imagined  that  all  my  misfortunes,  since  I  left 
Constantinople,  had  arisen  from  my  neglect  of  the  talis- 
man upon  the  beautiful  china  vase.  I  dreamed  three 
times,  when  I  was  recovering  from  the  plague,  that  a 
genius  appeared  to  me,  and  said,  in  a  reproachful  tone, 
'Murad,  where  is  the  vase  that  was  entrusted  to  thy 
care.?' 

"This  dream  operated  strongly  upon  my  imagination. 
As  soon  as  we  arrived  at  Constantinople,  which  we  did, 
to  my  great  surprise,  without  meeting  with  any  untoward 
accidents,  I  went  in  search  of  my  brother  Saladin,  to 
inquire  for  my  vase.  He  no  longer  lived  in  the  house 
in  which  I  left  him,  and  I  began  to  be  apprehensive  that 
he  was  dead;  but  a  porter,  hearing  my  inquiries,  ex- 
claimed, 'Who  is  there  in  Constantinople  that  is  igno- 
rant of  the  dwelling  of  Saladin  the  Lucky?  Come  with 
me,  and  I  will  show  it  to  you.' 

"The  mansion  to  which  he  conducted  me  looked  so 
magnificent  that  I  was  almost  afraid  to  enter  lest  there 
should  be  some  mistake.  But,  whilst  I  was  hesitating, 
the  doors  opened,  and  I  heard  my  brother  Saladin's 
voice.  He  saw  me  almost  at  the  same  instant  that  I 
fixed  my  eyes  upon  him,  and  immediately  sprang  for- 
ward to  embrace  me.  He  was  the  same  good  brother  as 
ever,  and  I  rejoiced  in  his  prosperity  with  all  my  heart. 
'Brother  Saladin,'  said  I,  'can  you  now  doubt  that  some 
men  are  born  to  be  fortunate,  and  others  to  be  unfortu- 
nate? How  often  you  used  to  dispute  this  point  with 
me!' 

"'Let  us  not  dispute  it  now  in  the  public  street,' 


MURAD  THE  UNLUCKY  189 

said  he,  smiling;  'but  come  in  and  refresh  yourself,  and 
we- will  consider  the  question  afterwards  at  leisure.' 

"*No,  my  dear  brother,'  said  I,  drawing  back,  'you 
are  too  good :  Murad  the  Unlucky  shall  not  enter  your 
house,  lest  he  should  draw  down  misfortunes  upon  you 
and  yours.    I  come  only  to  ask  for  my  vase.* 

"'It  is  safe,'  cried  he;  'come  in,  and  you  shall  see  it; 
but  I  will  not  give  it  up  till  I  have  you  in  my  house.  I 
have  none  of  these  superstitious  fears:  pardon  me  the 
expression,  but  I  have  none  of  these  superstitious  fears.' 

"I  yielded,  entered  his  house,  and  was  astonished  at 
all  I  saw!  My  brother  did  not  triumph  in  his  pros- 
perity; but,  on  the  contrary,  seemed  intent  only  ui)on 
making  me  forget  my  misfortunes:  he  listened  to  the 
account  of  them  with  kindness,  and  obliged  me  by  the 
recital  of  his  history;  which  was,  I  must  acknowledge, 
far  less  wonderful  than  my  own.  He  seemed,  by  his 
own  account,  to  have  grown  rich  in  the  common  course 
of  things;  or,  rather,  by  his  own  prudence.  I  allowed 
for  his  prejudices,  and,  unwilling  to  dispute  further  with 
him,  said,  'You  must  remain  of  your  opinion,  brother; 
and  I  of  mine:  you  are  Saladin  the  Lucky,  and  I  Murad 
the  Unlucky;  and  so  we  shall  remain  to  the  end  of  our 
lives.' 

"I  had  not  been  in  his  house  four  days  when  an  acci- 
dent happened,  which  showed  how  much  I  was  in  the 
right.  The  favorite  of  the  sultan,  to  whom  he  had  for- 
merly sold  his  china  vase,  though  her  charms  were  now 
somewhat  faded  by  time,  still  retained  her  power,  and 
her  taste  for  magnificence.  She  commissioned  my  brother 
to  bespeak  for  her,  at  Venice,  the  most  splendid  looking- 
glass  that  money  could  purchase.  The  mirror,  after 
many  delays  and  disappointments,  at  length  arrived  at 
my  brother's  house.    He  unpacked  it,  and  sent  to  let 


190  PLOT 

the  ladj'  know  it  was  in  perfect  safety.  It  was  late  in 
the  evening,  and  she  ordered  it  should  remain  where  it 
was  that  night;  and  that  it  should  be  brought  to  the 
seraglio  the  next  morning.  It  stood  in  a  sort  of  ante- 
chamber to  the  room  in  which  I  slept;  and  with  it  were  j 
left  some  packages,  containing  glass  chandeliers  for  an 
unfinished  saloon  in  my  brother's  house.  Saladin 
charged  all  his  domestics  to  be  vigilant  this  night,  because 
he  had  money  to  a  great  amount  by  him,  and  there  had 
been  frequent  robberies  in  our  neighborhood.  Hearing 
these  orders,  I  resolved  to  be  in  readiness  at  a  moment's 
warning.  I  laid  my  scimitar  beside  me  upon  a  cushion; 
and  left  my  door  half  open,  that  I  might  hear  the  slight- 
est noise  in  the  antechamber  or  the  great  staircase. 
About  midnight  I  was  suddenly  awakened  by  a  noise 
in  the  antechamber.  I  started  up,  seized  my  scimitar, 
and  the  instant  I  got  to  the  door,  saw,  by  the  light  of  the 
lamp  which  was  burning  in  the  room,  a  man  standing 
opposite  to  me,  with  a  drawn  sword  in  his  hand.  I  rushed 
forward,  demanding  what  he  wanted,  and  received  no 
answer;  but,  seeing  him  aim  at  me  with  his  scimitar,  I 
gave  him,  as  I  thought,  a  deadly  blow.  At  this  instant, 
I  heard  a  great  crash ;  and  the  fragments  of  the  looking- 
glass,  which  I  had  shivered,  fell  at  my  feet.  At  the  same 
moment  something  black  brushed  by  my  shoulder:  I 
pursued  it,  stumbled  over  the  packages  of  glass,  and 
rolled  over  them  down  the  stairs. 

"My  brother  came  out  of  his  room,  to  inquire  the 
cause  of  all  this  disturbance;  and  when  he  saw  the  fine 
mirror  broken,  and  me  lying  amongst  the  glass  chande- 
liers at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  he  could  not  forbear 
exclaiming,  'Well,  brother!  you  are  indeed  Murad  the 
Unlucky.' 

"When  the  first  emotion  was  over,  he  could  not. 


MURAD  THE  UNLUCKY  191 

however,  forbear  laughing  at  my  situation.  With  a 
degree  of  goodness,  which  made  me  a  thousand  times 
more  sorry  for  the  accident,  he  came  downstairs  to  help 
me  up,  gave  me  his  hand,  and  said,  'Forgive  me,  if  I 
was  angry  with  you  at  first.  I  am  sure  you  did  not 
mean  to  do  me  any  injury;  but  tell  me  how  all  this  has 
happened.' 

"Whilst  Saladin  was  speaking,  I  heard  the  same  kind 
of  noise  which  had  alarmed  me  in  the  antechamber;  but, 
on  looking  back,  I  saw  only  a  black  pigeon,  which  flew 
swiftly  by  me,  unconscious  of  the  mischief  he  had  occa- 
sioned. This  pigeon  I  had  unluckily  brought  into  the 
house  the  preceding  day;  and  had  been  feeding  and 
trying  to  tame  it  for  my  young  nephews.  I  little  thought 
it  would  be  the  cause  of  such  disasters.  My  brother, 
though  he  endeavored  to  conceal  his  anxiety  from  me, 
was  much  disturbed  at  the  idea  of  meeting  the  favorite's 
displeasure,  who  would  certainly  be  grievously  disap- 
pointed by  the  loss  of  her  s])lendid  looking-glass.  I  saw 
that  I  should  inevitably  be  his  ruin,  if  I  continued  in  his 
house;  and  no  persuasions  could  prevail  ui)on  me  to 
prolong  my  stay.  My  generous  brother,  seeing  me  deter- 
mined to  go,  said  to  me,  'A  factor,  whom  I  have  em- 
ployed for  some  years  to  sell  merchandise  for  me,  died 
a  few  days  ago.  Will  you  take  his  place?  I  am  rich 
enough  to  bear  any  little  mistakes  you  may  fall  into, 
from  ignorance  of  business;  and  you  will  have  a  partner 
who  is  able  and  willing  to  assist  you.' 

"i  was  touched  to  the  heart  by  this  kindness,  espe- 
cially at  such  a  time  as  this.  He  sent  one  of  his  slaves 
with  me  to  the  shop  in  which  you  now  see  me,  gentle- 
men. The  slave,  by  my  brother's  directions,  brought 
with  us  my  china  vase,  and  delivered  it  safely  to  me, 
with  this  message:  'The  scarlet  dye  that  was  found  in 


192  PLOT 

this  vase,  and  in  its  fellow,  was  the  first  cause  of  Saladin's 
making  the  fortune  he  now  enjoys:  he  therefore  does 
no  more  than  justice,  in  sharing  that  fortune  with  his 
brother  Murad.' 

"I  was  now  placed  in  as  advantageous  a  situation  as 
possible;  but  my  mind  was  ill  at  ease,  when  I  reflected 
that  the  broken  mirror  might  be  my  brother's  ruin. 
The  lady  by  whom  it  had  been  bespoken  was,  I  well 
knew,  of  a  violent  temper;  and  this  disappointment 
was  sufficient  to  provoke  her  to  vengeance.  My  brother 
sent  me  word  this  morning,  however,  that,  though  her 
displeasure  was  excessive,  it  was  in  my  power  to  prevent 
any  ill  consequences  that  might  ensue.  '  In  my  power ! ' 
I  exclaimed;  'then,  indeed,  I  am  happy!  Tell  my 
brother  there  is  nothing  I  will  not  do  to  show  him  my 
gratitude,  and  to  save  him  from  the  consequences  of 
my  folly.' 

"The  slave  who  was  sent  by  my  brother  seemed  un- 
willing to  name  what  was  required  of  me,  saying  that 
his  master  was  afraid  I  should  not  like  to  grant  the  re- 
quest. I  urged  him  to  speak  freely,  and  he  then  told  me 
the  favorite  declared  nothing  would  make  her  amends  for 
the  loss  of  the  mirror  but  the  fellow  vase  to  that  which 
?he  had  bought  from  Saladin.  It  was  impossible  for  me 
to  hesitate;  gratitude  for  my  brother's  generous  kind- 
ness overcame  my  superstitious  obstinacy;  and  I  sent 
him  word  I  would  carry  the  vase  to  him  myself. 

"I  took  it  down  this  evening  from  the  shelf  on  which 
it  stood;  it  was  covered  with  dust,  and  I  washed  it,  but 
unluckily,  in  endeavoring  to  clean  the  inside  from  the 
remains  of  the  scarlet  powder,  I  poured  hot  water  into 
it  and  immediately  I  heard  a  simmering  noise,  and  my 
vase,  in  a  few  instants,  burst  asunder  with  a  loud  explo- 
sion.   These  fragments,  alas!  are  all  that  remain.    Th© 


MURAD  THE   UNLUCKY  193 

measure  of  my  misfortunes  is  now  completed !  Can  you 
wonder,  gentlemen,  that  I  bewail  my  evil  destiny?  Am 
I  not  justly  called  Murad  the  Unlucky?  Here  end  all 
my  hopes  in  this  world!  Better  would  it  have  been  if 
I  had  died  long  ago!  Better  that  I  had  never  been  born! 
Nothing  I  ever  have  done  or  attempted  has  prospered. 
Murad  the  Unlucky  is  my  name,  and  ill  fate  has  marked 
me  for  her  own." 

Ill 

The  lamentations  of  Murad  were  interrupted  by  the 
entrance  of  Saladin.  Having  waited  in  vain  for  some 
hours,  he  now  came  to  see  if  any  disaster  had  happened 
to  his  brother  Murad.  He  was  surprised  at  the  sight 
of  the  two  pretended  merchants,  and  could  not  refrain 
from  exclamations  on  beholding  the  broken  vase.  How- 
ever, with  his  usual  equanimity  and  good  nature,  he 
began  to  console  Murad ;  and,  taking  up  the  fragments, 
examined  them  carefully,  one  by  one  joined  them  to- 
gether again,  found  that  none  of  the  edges  of  the  china 
were  damaged,  and  declared  he  could  have  it  mended  so 
as  to  look  as  well  as  ever. 

Murad  recovered  his  spirits  upon  this.  "Brother," 
said  he,  "I  comfort  myself  for  being  Murad  the  Un- 
lucky, when  I  reflect  that  you  are  Saladin  the  Lucky. 
See,  gentlemen,"  continued  he,  turning  to  the  pre- 
tended merchants,  "scarcely  has  this  most  fortunate  of 
men  been  five  minutes  in  company  before  he  gives  a 
happy  turn  to  afl^airs.  His  presence  inspires  joy:  I  ob- 
serve your  countenances,  which  had  been  saddened  by 
my  dismal  history,  have  brightened  up  since  he  has 
made  his  appearance.  Brother,  I  wish  you  would  make 
these  gentlemen  some  amends  for  the  time  they  have 
wasted  in  listening  to  my  catalogue  of  misfortunes,  by 


194  PLOT 

relating  your  history,  which,  I  am  sure,  they  will  find 
rather  more  exhilarating." 

Saladin  consented,  on  condition  that  the  strangers 
would  accompany  him  home,  and  partake  of  a  social 
banquet.  They  at  first  repeated  the  former  excuse  of 
their  being  obliged  to  return  to  their  inn;  but  at  length 
the  sultan's  curiosity  prevailed,  and  he  and  his  vizier 
went  home  wuth  Saladin  the  Lucky,  who,  after  supper, 
related  his  history  in  the  following  manner :  — 

"  My  being  called  Saladin  the  Lucky  first  inspired  me 
with  confidence  in  myself;  though  I  own  that  I  cannot 
remember  any  extraordinary  instances  of  good  luck  in 
my  childhood.  An  old  nurse  of  my  mother's,  indeed, 
repeated  to  me,  twenty  times  a  day,  that  nothing  I  un- 
dertook could  fail  to  succeed,  because  I  was  Saladin  the 
Lucky.  I  became  presumptuous  and  rash;  and  my 
nurse's  prognostics  might  have  effectually  prevented 
their  accomplishment,  had  I  not,  when  I  was  about 
fifteen,  been  roused  to  reflection  during  a  long  con- 
finement, which  was  the  consequence  of  my  youthful 
conceit  and  imprudence. 

"At  this  time  there  was  at  the  Porte  a  Frenchman, 
an  ingenious  engineer,  who  was  employed  and  favored 
by  the  sultan,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  many  of  my 
prejudiced  countrymen.  On  the  grand  seignior's  birth- 
day he  exhibited  some  extraordinarily  fine  fireworks;  and 
I,  with  numbers  of  the  inhabitants  of  Constantinople, 
crowded  to  see  them.  I  happened  to  stand  near  the 
place  where  the  Frenchman  was  stationed;  the  crowd 
pressed  upon  him,  and  I  amongst  the  rest;  he  begged 
we  would,  for  our  own  sakes,  keep  at  a  greater  distance, 
and  warned  us  that  we  might  be  much  hurt  by  the  com- 
bustibles which  he  was  using.  I,  relying  u})on  my  good 
fortune,  disregarded  all  these  cautions;  and  the  conse- 


MURAD  THE  UNLUCKY  195 

quence  was,  that  as  I  touched  some  of  the  materials 
prepared  for  the  fireworks,  they  exploded,  dashed  me 
upon  the  ground  with  great  violence,  and  I  was  terribly 
burnt. 

"This  accident,  gentlemen,  I  consider  as  one  of  the 
most  fortunate  circumstances  of  my  life;  for  it  checked 
and  corrected  the  presumption  of  my  temper.  During 
the  time  I  was  confined  to  my  bed,  the  French  gentle- 
man came  frequently  to  see  me.  He  was  a  very  sensible 
man;  and  the  conversations  he  had  with  me  enlarged 
my  mind,  and  cured  me  of  many  foolish  prejudices, 
especially  of  that  which  I  had  been  taught  to  entertain, 
concerning  the  predominance  of  what  is  called  luck,  or 
fortune,  in  human  affairs.  'Though  you  are  called  Sala- 
din  the  Lucky,'  said  he,  'you  find  that  your  neglect  of 
prudence  has  nearly  brought  you  to  the  grave  even  in 
the  bloom  of  youth.  Take  my  advice,  and  henceforward 
trust  more  to  prudence  than  to  fortune.  Let  the  multi- 
tude, if  they  will,  call  you  Saladin  the  Lucky;  but  call 
yourself,  and  make  yourself,  Saladin  the  Prudent.' 

"These  words  left  an  indelible  impression  on  my 
mind,  and  gave  a  new  turn  to  my  thoughts  and  char- 
acter. My  brother,  Murad,  had  doubtless  told  you  that 
our  difference  of  opinion,  on  the  subject  of  predestina- 
tion, produced  between  us  frequent  arguments;  but  we 
could  never  convince  one  another,  and  we  each  have 
acted,  through  life,  in  consequence  of  our  different  be- 
liefs. To  this  I  attribute  my  success  and  his  misfortunes. 

"The  first  rise  of  my  fortune,  as  you  have  probably 
heard  from  Murad,  was  owing  to  the  scarlet  dye,  which 
I  brought  to  perfection  with  infinite  difiiculty.  The 
powder,  it  is  true,  was  accidentally  found  by  me  in  our 
china  vases;  but  there  it  might  have  remained  to  this 
instant,  useless,  if  I  had  not  taken  the  jiains  to  make  it 


196  PLOT 

useful.  I  grant  that  we  can  only  partially  foresee  and 
command  events;  yet  on  the  use  we  make  of  our  own 
powers,  I  think,  depends  our  destiny.  But,  gentlemen, 
you  would  rather  hear  my  adventures,  perhaps,  than  my 
reflections;  and  I  am  truly  concerned,  for  your  sakes, 
that  I  have  no  wonderful  events  to  relate.  I  am  sorry 
I  cannot  tell  you  of  my  having  been  lost  in  a  sandy 
desert.  I  have  never  had  the  plague,  nor  even  been 
shipwrecked:  I  have  been  all  my  life  an  inhabitant  of 
Constantinople,  and  have  passed  my  time  in  a  very 
quiet  and  uniform  manner. 

"The  money  I  received  from  the  sultan's  favorite  for 
my  china  vase,  as  my  brother  may  have  told  you,  en- 
abled me  to  trade  on  a  more  extensive  scale.  I  went  on 
steadily  with  my  business;  and  made  it  my  whole  study 
to  please  my  employers,  by  all  fair  and  honorable  means. 
This  industry  and  civility  succeeded  beyond  my  expec- 
tations :  in  a  few  years,  I  was  rich  for  a  man  in  my  way 
of  business. 

"I  will  not  proceed  to  trouble  you  with  the  journal 
of  a  petty  merchant's  life;  I  pass  on  to  the  incident  which 
made  a  considerable  change  in  my  affairs. 

"A  terrible  fire  broke  out  near  the  walls  of  the  grand 
seignior's  seraglio:  as  you  are  strangers,  gentlemen,  you 
may  not  have  heard  of  this  event,  though  it  produced 
so  great  a  sensation  in  Constantinople.  The  vizier's  su- 
perb palace  was  utterly  consumed;  and  the  melted  lead 
poured  down  from  the  roof  of  the  mosque  of  St.  Sophia. 
Various  were  the  opinions  formed  by  my  neighbors  re- 
specting the  cause  of  the  conflagration.  Some  supposed 
it  to  be  a  punishment  for  the  sultan's  having  neglected, 
one  Friday,  to  appear  at  the  mosque  of  St.  Sophia;  others 
considered  it  as  a  warning  sent  by  Mahomet,  to  dis- 
suade   the   Porte   from  persisting   in  a  war  in  which 


MURAD  THE  UNLUCKY  197 

we  were  just  engaged.  The  generality,  however,  of  the 
cotfee-house  politicians  contented  themselves  with  ob- 
serving that  it  was  the  will  of  Mahomet  that  the  palace 
should  be  consumed.  Satisfied  by  this  supposition,  they 
took  no  precaution  to  prevent  similar  accidents  in  their 
own  houses.  Never  were  fires  so  common  in  the  city  as 
at  this  period;  scarcely  a  night  passed  without  our  being 
wakened  by  the  cry  of  fire. 

"These  frequent  fires  were  rendered  still  more  dread- 
ful by  villains,  who  were  continually  on  the  watch  to 
increase  the  confusion  by  which  they  profited,  and  to 
pillage  the  houses  of  the  sufferers.  It  was  discovered 
that  these  incendiaries  frequently  skulked,  towards  even- 
ing, in  the  neighborhood  of  the  bezestein,  where  the  rich- 
est merchants  store  their  goods;  some  of  these  wretches 
were  detected  in  throwing  coundaks,  or  matches,  into  the 
windows;  and  if  these  combustibles  remained  a  suSicient 
time,  they  could  not  fail  to  set  the  house  on  fire. 

"Notwithstanding  all  these  circumstances,  many  even 
of  those  who  had  property  to  preserve  continued  to  re- 
peat, 'It  is  the  will  of  Mahomet,'  and  consequently  to 
neglect  all  means  of  preservation.  I,  on  the  contrary, 
recollecting  the  lesson  I  had  learned  from  the  sensible 
foreigner,  neither  suffered  mj'^  spirits  to  sink  with  super- 
stitious fears  of  ill  luck,  nor  did  I  trust  presum])tuously 
to  my  good  fortune.  I  took  every  possible  means  to  se- 
cure myself.  I  never  went  tg  bed  without  having  seen 
that  all  the  lights  and  fires  in  the  house  were  extin- 
guished, and  that  I  had  a  supply  of  water  in  the  cistern. 
I  had  likewise  learned  from  my  Frenchman  that  wet 
mortar  was  the  most  effectual  thing  for  stopping  the 
progress  of  flames:  I  therefore  had  a  quantity  of  mortar 
made  up  in  one  of  my  outhouses,  which  I  could  use  at 
a  moment's  warning.  These  precautions  were  all  useful 


198  PLOT 

to  me:  my  own  house,  indeed,  was  never  actually  on 
fire,  but  the  houses  of  my  next-door  neighbors  were  no 
less  than  five  times  in  flames,  in  the  course  of  one  win- 
ter. By  my  exertions,  or  rather  by  my  precautions,  they 
suffered  but  little  damage;  and  all  my  neighbors  looked 
upon  me  as  their  deliverer  and  friend:  they  loaded  me 
with  presents,  and  offered  more,  indeed,  than  I  would 
accept.  All  repeated  that  I  was  Saladin  the  Lucky. 
This  compliment  I  disclaimed,  feeling  more  ambitious  of 
being  called  Saladin  the  Prudent.  It  is  thus  that  what 
we  call  modesty  is  often  only  a  more  refined  species  of 
pride.   But  to  proceed  with  my  story. 

"One  night  I  had  been  later  than  usual  at  supper,  at 
a  friend's  house :  none  but  the  watch  were  in  the  streets, 
and  even  they,  I  believe,  were  asleep. 

"As  I  passed  one  of  the  conduits,  which  convey  water 
to  the  city,  I  heard  a  trickling  noise;  and,  upon  exami- 
nation, I  found  that  the  cock  of  the  water-spout  was 
half  turned,  so  that  the  water  was  running  out.  I  turned 
it  back  to  its  proper  place,  thought  it  had  been  left 
unturned  by  accident,  and  walked  on;  but  I  had  not 
proceeded  far  before  I  came  to  another  spout  and  an- 
other, which  were  in  the  same  condition.  I  was  con- 
vinced that  this  could  not  be  the  effect  merely  of  acci- 
dent, and  suspected  that  some  ill-intentioned  persons 
designed  to  let  out  and  waste  the  water  of  the  city, 
that  there  might  be  none  to  extinguish  any  fire  that 
should  l^reak  out  in  the  course  of  the  night. 

"I  stood  still  for  a  few  moments,  to  consider  how  it 
would  be  most  prudent  to  act.  It  would  be  impossible 
for  me  to  run  to  all  parts  of  the  city,  that  I  might  stop 
the  pipes  that  were  running  to  waste.  I  first  thought  of 
wakening  the  watch  and  the  firemen,  who  were  most  of 
them  slumbering  at  their  stations;  but  I  reflected  that 


MURAD  THE  UNLUCKY  199 

they  were  perhaps  not  to  be  trusted,  and  that  they  were 
in  a  confederacy  with  the  incendiaries;  otherwise,  they 
would  certainly,  before  this  hour,  have  observed  and 
stopped  the  running  of  the  sewers  in  their  neighborhood. 
I  determined  to  waken  a  rich  merchant,  called  Damat 
Zade,  who  lived  near  me,  and  who  had  a  number  of 
slaves  whom  he  could  send  to  different  parts  of  the  city, 
to  prevent  mischief,  and  give  notice  to  the  inliabitants  of 
their  danger. 

"He  was  a  very  sensible,  active  man,  and  one  that 
would  easily  be  wakened :  he  w^as  not,  like  some  Turks, 
an  hour  in  recovering  their  lethargic  senses.  He  was 
quick  in  decision  and  action;  and  his  slaves  resembled 
their  master.  He  dispatched  a  messenger  immediately 
to  the  grand  vizier,  that  the  sultan's  safety  might  be  se- 
cured; and  sent  others  to  the  magistrates,  in  each  quar- 
ter of  Constantinople.  The  large  drums  in  the  janissary 
aga's  tower  beat  to  rouse  the  inhabitants;  and  scarcely 
had  this  been  heard  to  beat  half  an  hour  before  the  fire 
broke  out  in  the  lower  apartment  of  Damat  Zade's 
house,  owing  to  a  coundak,  which  had  been  left  behind 
one  of  the  doors. 

"The  wretches  who  had  prepared  the  mischief  came 
to  enjoy  it,  and  to  pillage;  but  they  were  disap})ointed. 
Astonished  to  find  themselves  taken  into  custody,  they 
could  not  comprehend  how  their  designs  had  been  frus- 
trated. By  timely  exertions,  the  fire  in  my  friend's 
house  was  extinguished;  and  though  fires  broke  out, 
during  the  night,  in  many  parts  of  the  city,  but  little 
damage  was  sustained,  because  there  was  time  for  pre- 
cautions; and  by  the  stopping  of  the  spouts,  sufficient 
water  was  preserved.  People  were  awakened,  and  warned 
of  the  danger,  and  they  consequently  escaped  unhurt. 

"The  next  day,  as  soon  as  I  made  my  aj^pearance  at 


200  PLOT 

the  bezestein,  the  merchants  crowded  round,  called  me 
their  benefactor,  and  the  preserver  of  their  lives  and 
fortunes.  Damat  Zade,  the  merchant  whom  I  had 
awakened  the  preceding  night,  presented  to  me  a  heavy 
purse  of  gold,  and  put  upon  my  finger  a  diamond  ring 
of  considerable  value;  each  of  the  merchants  followed 
his  example,  in  making  me  rich  presents:  the  magis- 
trates also  sent  me  tokens  of  their  approbation ;  and  the 
grand  vizier  sent  me  a  diamond  of  the  first  water,  with 
a  line  written  by  his  own  hand:  'To  the  man  who  has 
saved  Constantinople.'  Excuse  me,  gentlemen,  for  the 
vanity  I  seem  to  show  in  mentioning  these  circumstances. 
You  desired  to  hear  my  history,  and  I  cannot  there- 
fore omit  the  principal  circumstance  of  my  life.  In  the 
course  of  four-and-twenty  hours,  I  found  myself  raised, 
by  the  munificent  gratitude  of  the  inhabitants  of  this 
city,  to  a  state  of  afiluence  far  beyond  what  I  had  ever 
dreamed  of  attaining. 

"I  now  took  a  house  suited  to  my  circumstances,  and 
bought  a  few  slaves.  As  I  was  carrying  my  slaves  home, 
I  was  met  by  a  Jew,  who  stopped  me,  saying,  in  his  lan- 
guage, 'My  lord,  I  see,  has  been  purchasing  slaves:  I 
could  clothe  them  cheaply.'  There  was  something  mys- 
terious in  the  manner  of  this  Jew,  and  I  did  not  like  his 
countenance;  but  I  considered  that  I  ought  not  to  be 
governed  by  caprice  in  my  dealings,  and  that,  if  this 
man  could  really  clothe  my  slaves  more  cheaply  than 
another,  I  ought  not  to  neglect  his  offer  merely  because 
I  took  a  dislike  to  the  cut  of  his  beard,  the  turn  of  his 
eye,  or  the  tone  of  his  voice.  I  therefore  bade  the  Jew 
follow  me  home,  saying  that  I  would  consider  of  his 
proposal. 

"When  we  came  to  talk  oyer  the  matter,  I  was  sur- 
prised to  find  him  so  reasonable  in  his  demands.  On  one 


MURAD  THE  UNLUCKY  201 

point,  indeed,  he  appeared  unwilling  to  comply.  I  re- 
quired not  only  to  see  the  clothes  I  was  offered,  Ijut  also 
to  know  how  they  came  into  his  possession.  On  this 
subject  he  equivocated;  I  therefore  suspected  there  must 
be  something  wrong.  I  reflected  what  it  could  be,  and 
judged  that  the  goods  had  been  stolen,  or  that  they  had 
been  the  apparel  of  persons  who  had  died  of  some  con- 
tagious distemper.  The  Jew  showed  me  a  chest,  from 
which  he  said  I  might  choose  whatever  suited  me  best. 
I  observed  that,  as  he  was  going  to  unlock  the  chest,  he 
stuffed  his  nose  with  some  aromatic  herbs.  He  told  me 
that  he  did  so  to  prevent  his  smelling  the  musk  with 
which  the  chest  was  perfumed:  musk,  he  said,  had  an 
extraordinary  effect  upon  his  nerves.  I  begged  to  have 
some  of  the  herbs  which  he  used  himself;  declaring  that 
musk  was  likewise  offensive  to  me. 

"The  Jew,  either  struck  by  his  own  conscience,  or  ob- 
serving my  suspicions,  turned  as  pale  as  death.  He  pre- 
tended he  had  not  the  right  key,  and  could  not  unlock 
the  chest;  said  he  must  go  in  search  of  it,  and  that  he 
would  call  on  me  again. 

"After  he  had  left  me,  I  examined  some  writing  upon 
the  lid  of  the  chest,  that  had  been  nearly  effaced.  I  made 
out  the  word  Smyrna,  and  this  was  sufficient  to  confirm 
all  my  suspicions.  The  Jew  returned  no  more:  he  sent 
some  porters  to  carry  away  the  chest,  and  I  heard  noth- 
ing of  him  for  some  time,  till  one  day,  when  I  was  at  the 
house  of  Damat  Zade,  I  saw  a  glimpse  of  the  Jew  pass- 
ing hastily  through  one  of  the  courts,  as  if  he  wished  to 
avoid  me.  'My  friend,'  said  I  to  Damat  Zade,  'do  not 
attribute  my  question  to  impertinent  curiosity,  or  to  a 
desire  to  intermeddle  with  your  affairs,  if  I  venture  to 
ask  the  nature  of  your  business  with  the  Jew,  who  has 
just  now  crossed  your  court.' 


202  PLOT 

"'He  has  engaged  to  supply  me  with  clothing  for  my 
slaves,'  replied  my  friend,  'cheaper  than  I  can  purchase 
it  elsewhere.  I  have  a  design  to  surprise  my  daughter, 
Fatima,  on  her  birthday,  with  an  entertainment  in  the 
pavilion  in  the  garden;  and  all  her  female  slaves  shall 
appear  in  new  dresses  on  the  occasion.' 

"I  interrupted  my  friend,  to  tell  him  what  I  suspected 
relative  to  this  Jew  and  his  chest  of  clothes.  It  is  cer- 
tain that  the  infection  of  the  plague  can  be  communi- 
cated by  clothes,  not  only  after  months  but  after  years 
have  elapsed.  The  merchant  resolved  to  have  nothing 
more  to  do  with  this  wretch,  who  could  thus  hazard  the 
lives  of  thousands  of  his  fellow  creatures  for  a  few  pieces 
of  gold:  we  sent  notice  of  the  circumstance  to  the  cadi, 
but  the  cadi  was  slow  in  his  operations;  and  before  he 
could  take  the  Jew  into  custody,  the  cunning  fellow  had 
effected  his  escape.  When  his  house  was  searched,  he 
and  his  chest  had  disappeared:  we  discovered  that  he 
sailed  for  Egypt,  and  rejoiced  that  we  had  driven  him 
from  Constantinople. 

"My  friend,  Damat  Zade,  expressed  the  warmest 
gratitude  to  me.  '  You  formerly  saved  my  fortune :  you 
have  now  saved  my  life;  and  a  life  yet  dearer  than  my 
own,  that  of  my  daughter  Fatima.' 

"At  the  sound  of  that  name  I  could  not,  I  believe, 
avoid  showing  some  emotion.  I  had  accidentally  seen 
this  lady,  and  I  had  been  captivated  by  her  beauty,  and 
by  the  sweetness  of  her  countenance;  but  as  I  knew  she 
was  destined  to  be  the  wife  of  another,  I  suppressed  my 
feeling,  and  determined  to  banish  the  recollection  of  the 
fair  Fatima  forever  from  my  imagination.  Her  father, 
however,  at  this  instant,  threw  into  my  way  a  temptation 
which  it  required  all  my  fortitude  to  resist.  'Saladin,' 
continued  he,  'it  is  but  just  that  you,  who  have  saved 


MURAD  THE  UNLUCKY  203 

our  lives,  should  share  our  festivity.  Come  here  on  the 
birthday  of  my  Fatima:  I  will  i)Iace  you  in  a  balcony, 
which  overlooks  the  garden,  and  you  shall  see  the  whole 
spectacle.  We  shall  have  a  feast  of  tulips,  in  imitation 
of  that  which,  as  you  know,  is  held  in  the  grand  seign- 
ior's gardens.  I  assure  you,  the  sight  will  be  worth 
seeing;  and  besides,  you  will  have  a  chance  of  beholding 
my  Fatima,  for  a  moment,  without  her  veil.' 

"'That,'  interrupted  I,  'is  the  thing  I  most  wish  to 
avoid.  I  dare  not  indulge  myself  in  a  pleasure  which 
might  cost  me  the  happiness  of  my  life.  I  will  conceal 
nothing  from  you,  who  treat  me  with  so  much  confi- 
dence. I  have  already  beheld  the  charming  countenance 
of  your  Fatima,  but  I  know  that  she  is  destined  to  be 
the  wife  of  a  happier  man.' 

"Damat  Zade  seemed  much  pleased  by  the  frankness 
with  which  I  explained  myself;  but  he  would  not  give 
up  the  idea  of  my  sitting  with  him,  in  the  balcony,  on 
the  day  of  the  feast  of  tulips,  and  I,  on  my  part,  could 
rot  consent  to  expose  myself  to  another  view  of  the 
charming  Fatima.  My  friend  used  every  argument,  or 
rather  every  sort  of  persuasion,  he  could  imagine  to 
prevail  upon  me :  he  then  tried  to  laugh  me  out  of  my 
resolution;  and,  when  all  failed,  he  said,  in  a  voice  of 
anger,  'Go,  then,  Saladin;  I  am  sure  you  are  deceiving 
me :  you  have  a  passion  for  some  other  woman,  and  you 
would  conceal  it  from  me,  and  persuade  me  you  refuse 
the  favor  I  offer  you  from  prudence,  when,  in  fact,  it  is 
from  indifference  and  contempt.  Why  could  you  not 
speak  the  truth  of  your  heart  to  me  with  that  frankness 
with  which  one  friend  should  treat  another?' 

"Astonished  at  this  unexpected  charge,  and  at  the 
anger  which  flashed  from  the  eyes  of  Damat  Zade,  who 
till  this  moment  had  always  appeared  to  me  a  man  of  a 


204  PLOT 

mild  and  reasonable  temper,  I  was  for  an  instant  tempted 
to  fly  into  a  passion  and  leave  him:  but  friends,  once 
lost,  are  not  easily  regained.  This  consideration  had 
power  sufficient  to  make  me  command  my  temper.  'My 
friend,'  replied  I,  'we  will  talk  over  this  affair  to-morrow: 
you  are  now  angry,  and  cannot  do  me  justice;  but  to- 
morrow you  will  be  cool:  you  will  then  be  convinced 
that  I  have  not  deceived  you;  and  that  I  have  no  design 
but  to  secure  my  own  happiness  by  the  most  prudent 
means  in  my  power,  by  avoiding  the  sight  of  the  danger- 
ous Fatima.  I  have  no  passion  for  any  other  woman.' 

"'Then,'  said  my  friend,  embracing  me,  and  quitting 
the  tone  of  anger  which  he  had  assumed  only  to  try 
my  resolution  to  the  utmost,  —  'then,  Saladin,  Fatima, 
is  yours.' 

"I  scarcely  dared  to  believe  my  senses!  I  could  not 
express  my  joy!  'Yes,  my  friend,'  continued  the  mer- 
chant, 'I  have  tried  your  prudence  to  the  utmost;  it  has 
been  victorious,  and  I  resign  my  Fatima  to  you,  certain 
that  you  will  make  her  happy.  It  is  true,  I  had  a  greater 
alliance  in  view  for  her:  the  Pacha  of  Maksoud  has 
demanded  her  from  me;  but  I  have  found,  upon  private 
inquiry,  he  is  addicted  to  the  intemperate  use  of  opium : 
and  my  daughter  shall  never  be  the  wife  of  one  who  is  a 
violent  madman  one  half  the  day,  and  a  melancholy 
idiot  during  the  remainder.  I  have  nothing  to  appre- 
hend from  the  pacha's  resentment,  because  I  have  power- 
ful friends  with  the  grand  vizier  who  will  oblige  him  to 
listen  to  reason,  and  to  submit  quietly  to  a  disappoint- 
ment he  so  justly  merits.  And  now,  Saladin,  have  you 
any  objection  to  seeing  the  feast  of  tulips?' 

"I  replied  only  by  falling  at  the  merchant's  feet,  and 
embracing  his  knees.  The  feast  of  tulips  came,  and  on 
that  day  I  was  married  to  the  charming  Fatima!    The 


MURAD  THE  UNLUCKY  205 

charming  Fatima  I  continue  still  to  think  her,  though 
she  has  now  been  my  wife  some  years.  She  is  the  joy 
and  pride  of  my  heart;  and,  from  our  mutual  affection,! 
have  experienced  more  felicity  than  from  all  the  other 
circumstances  of  my  life,  which  are  called  so  fortunate. 
Her  father  gave  me  the  house  in  which  I  now  live,  and 
joined  his  possessions  to  ours;  so  that  I  have  more 
wealth  even  than  I  desire.  My  riches,  however,  give 
me  continually  the  means  of  relieving  the  wants  of 
others;  and  therefore  I  cannot  affect  to  despise  them.  I 
must  persuade  my  brother  Murad  to  share  them  with 
me,  and  to  forget  his  misfortunes:  I  shall  then  think 
myself  completely  happy.  As  to  the  sultana's  looking- 
glass,  and  your  broken  vase,  my  dear  brother,"  con- 
tinued Saladin,  "we  must  think  of  some  means — " 

"Think  no  more  of  the  sultana's  looking-glass,  or  of 
the  broken  vase,"  exclaimed  the  sultan,  throwing  aside 
his  merchant's  habit,  and  showing  beneath  it  his  own 
imperial  vest.  "Saladin,  I  rejoice  to  have  heard,  from 
your  own  lips,  the  history  of  your  life.  I  acknowledge, 
vizier,  I  have  been  in  the  wrong,  in  our  argument,"  con- 
tinued the  sultan,  turning  to  his  vizier.  "I  acknowledge 
that  the  histories  of  Saladin  the  Lucky  and  ISIurad  the 
Unlucky  favor  your  opinion,  that  prudence  has  more 
influence  than  chance  in  human  affairs.  The  success  and 
happiness  of  Saladin  seem  to  me  to  have  arisen  from  his 
prudence:  by  that  prudence,  Constantinople  has  been 
saved  from  flames,  and  from  the  plague.  Had  ]Murad 
possessed  his  brother's  discretion,  he  would  not  have 
been  on  the  point  of  losing  his  head,  for  selling  rolls 
which  he  did  not  bake;  he  would  not  have  been  kicked 
by  a  mule,  or  bastinadoed  for  finding  a  ring;  he  would 
not  have  been  robbed  by  one  party  of  soldiers,  or  shot 
by  another;  he  would  not  have  been  lost  in  a  desert,  or 


206  PLOT 

cheated  by  a  Jew;  he  would  not  have  set  a  ship  on  fire; 
nor  would  he  have  caught  the  plague,  and  spread  it 
through  Grand  Cairo;  he  would  not  have  run  ray  sul- 
tana's looking-glass  through  the  body,  instead  of  a  rob- 
ber; he  would  not  have  believed  that  the  fate  of  his  life 
depended  on  certain  verses  on  a  china  vase;  nor  would 
he,  at  last,  have  broken  this  precious  talisman,  by  wash- 
ing it  with  hot  water.  Henceforward,  let  Murad  the 
Unlucky  be  named  Murad  the  Imprudent:  let  Saladin 
preserve  the  surname  he  merits,  and  be  henceforth 
called  Saladin  the  Prudent." 

So  spake  the  sultan,  who,  unlike  the  generality  of 
monarchs,  could  bear  to  find  himself  in  the  wrong;  and 
could  discover  his  vizier  to  be  in  the  right,  without  cut- 
ting off  his  head.  History  further  informs  us  that  the  sul- 
tan offered  to  make  Saladin  a  pacha,  and  to  commit  to 
him  the  government  of  a  province;  but  Saladin  the  Pru- 
dent declined  this  honor,  saying  he  had  no  ambition,  was 
perfectly  happy  in  his  present  situation,  and  that,  when 
this  was  the  case,  it  would  be  folly  to  change,  because 
no  one  can  be  more  than  happy.  What  further  adven- 
tures befell  Murad  the  Imprudent  are  not  recorded;  it 
is  known  only  that  he  became  a  daily  visitor  to  the 
Teriaky;  and  that  he  died  a  martyr  to  the  immoderate 
use  of  opium. 


ESTHER! 

The  story  of  Esther  presents  an  excellent  illustration  of  the 
"dramatic  plot"  type  of  narrative  structure.^  The  first  char- 
acteristic of  this  type  is  found  in  the  fact  that  it  must  repre- 
sent a  struggle  between  two  antagonistic  forces,  —  usually 
one  representing  Good,  and  the  other  Evil :  in  this  case,  between 
Mordecai,  a  son  of  the  Chosen  Race,  and  Haman,  one  of  its 
heathen  persecutors. 

A  second  characteristic  consists  in  the  logical  nature  of  the 
action.  Each  episode  is  an  event,  in  that  it  "issues  from" 
some  antecedent  cause.  Typical  drama  presupposes  some  Con- 
trolling Power  working  out  its  own  definite  purposes;  it  may  be 
Fate,  it  may  be  Divine  Purpose.  In  the  case  of  Esther,  the 
reader  is  constantly  aware  of  the  fact  that  Mordecai  and 
Esther  are  but  instruments  in  the  hands  of  Jehovah,  carrying 
into  operation  his  will  with  reference  to  the  Chosen  People; 
Haman  and  his  cause  are  foredoomed  to  failure,  as  propheti- 
cally realized  by  Zeresh. 

In  the  ordering  of  the  structure,  the  dramatic  type  of  plot 
is  also  unique.  It  consists  of  two  distinct  phases,  —  the  Rise 
and  the  Fall,  —  leading  respectively  to  and  from  a  medial  Cli- 
max, or  Moment  of  Greatest  Suspense.  The  Rise  is  marked 
by  a  Preliminary  Exposition  for  the  enlightenment  of  the 
reader  as  to  the  facts  to  be  elaborated ;  a  Moment  of  Exciting 
Force  wherein  the  two  rival  forces  are  thrown  into  active 
antagonism;  and  finally  of  the  successive  episodes  that  lead 
up  to  the  Climax,  where  the  relative  fortunes  of  the  rival 
forces  become  reversed,  apparent  success  yielding  to  failure, 
and  vice  versa.  In  the  Fall,  which  leads  from  the  Climax  down 
to  the  final  Catastrophe,  one  usually  finds  several  episodes, 
or  "scenes,"  among  them  one  known  as  the  Moment  of  Final 

'  From  the  Book  of  Esther,  in  the  Old  Testament.  The  ordering 
of  the  text  is,  in  general,  that  of  the  Authorized  Version,  with  the 
omission  of  certain  verses  not  essential  to  the  narrative  structure. 

*  For  a  full  discussion  of  this  type  and  a  complete  analysis  of  the 
Esther  narrative  see  Rhetorical  Principles  of  Narration,  pp.  205-19. 


208  PLOT 

Suspense,  at  which  point,  for  a  moment,  impending  disaster 
seems  about  to  be  checked,  but  in  reahty  rendering  the  inevita- 
ble catastrophe  all  the  more  forceful  and  impressive.  The 
Esther  narrative  jiresents  a  suggestion  of  this  Final  Suspense 
at  the  banquet  scene  when  Haman  throws  himself  on  the 
queen's  mercy,  but,  with  the  sudden  advent  of  the  angry  king, 
his  fate  is  sealed  and  "they  covered  his  face." 

The  Bible  story  has  here  been  ordered  so  as  to  bring  out  the 
various  stages  of  the  dramatic  structure. 


PRELIMINARY   KXPOSITION 

(1)  The  Feast  of  AJiasuerus  to  his  'princes  and  servants 
at  Shushan  —  Now  it  came  to  pass  in  the  days  of  AJias- 
uerus, (this  is  Ahasuerus  which  reigned  from  India  even 
unto  Ethiopia,  over  an  hundred  and  seven  and  twenty- 
provinces)  that  in  those  days,  when  the  king  Ahasue- 
rus sat  on  the  throne  of  his  kingdom,  which  was  in  Shu- 
shan the  palace,  in  the  third  year  of  his  reign,  he  made 
a  feast  unto  all  his  princes  and  his  servants;  the  power 
of  Persia  and  Media,  the  nobles  and  princes  of  the  pro- 
vinces, being  before  him :  when  he  shewed  the  riches  of 
his  glorious  kingdom  and  the  honour  of  his  excellent 
majesty  many  days,  even  an  hundred  and  fourscore 
days.  And  when  these  days  were  fulfilled,  the  king  made 
a  feast  unto  all  the  people  that  were  present  in  Shu- 
shan the  palace,  both  great  and  small,  seven  days,  in 
the  court  of  the  garden  of  the  king's  palace;  there  were 
hangings  of  white  cloth,  of  green,  and  of  blue,  fastened 
with  cords  of  fine  linen  and  jjurple  to  silver  rings  and 
pillars  of  marble:  the  couches  were  of  gold  and  silver, 
upon  a  pavement  of  red,  and  white,  and  yellow,  and 
black  marble.  And  they  gave  them  drink  in  vessels  of 
gold,  (the  vessels  being  diverse  one  from  another,)  and 


ESTHER  209 

royal  wine  in  abundance,  according  to  the  bounty  of 
the  king.  And  the  drinking  was  according  to  the  law; 
none  could  conii)el;  for  so  the  king  had  api)ointcd  to  all 
the  officers  of  his  house,  that  they  should  do  according 
to  every  man's  pleasure.  Also  Vashti  the  queen  made 
a  feast  for  the  women  in  the  royal  house  which  belonged 
to  king  Ahasuerus. 

On  the  seventh  day,  when  the  heart  of  the  king  was 
merry  with  wine,  he  commanded  to  Mehuman,  Biztha, 
Harbona,  Bigtha,  and  Abagtha,  Zethar,  and  Carcas,  the 
seven  chamberlains  that  ministered  in  the  jjresence  of 
Ahasuerus  the  king,  to  bring  Vashti  the  queen  before 
the  king  with  the  crown  royal,  to  shew  the  peoples  and 
the  princes  her  beauty:  for  she  was  fair  to  look  on. 
But  the  queen  Vashti  refused  to  come  at  the  king's  com- 
mandment by  the  chamberlains:  therefore  was  the  king 
very  wroth,  and  his  anger  burned  in  him. 

Then  said  the  king  to  the  wise  men,  which  knew  the 
times:  "What  shall  we  do  unto  the  queen  Vashti  accord- 
ing to  law,  because  she  hath  not  done  the  bidding  of  the 
king  Ahasuerus  by  the  chamberlains?" 

And  Memucan  answered  before  the  king  and  the 
princes:  "Vashti  the  queen  hath  not  done  wrong  to  the 
king  only,  but  also  to  all  the  princes,  and  to  all  the  peo- 
ples that  are  in  all  the  provinces  of  the  king  Ahasuerus. 
For  this  deed  of  the  queen  shall  come  abroad  unto  all 
women,  to  make  their  husbands  contemptible  in  their 
eyes,  when  it  shall  be  reported,  'The  king  .iVliasuerus 
commanded  Vashti  the  queen  to  be  brought  in  before 
him,  but  she  came  not.'  And  this  day  shall  the  prin- 
cesses of  Persia  and  Media  which  have  heard  of  the  deed 
of  the  queen  say  the  like  unto  all  the  king's  princes. 
So  shall  there  arise  much  contempt  and  wrath.  If  it 
please  the  king,  let  there  go  forth  a  royal  command- 


210  PLOT 

ment  from  him,  and  let  it  be  written  among  the  laws  of 
the  Persians  and  the  Medes,  that  it  be  not  altered,  that 
Vashti  come  no  more  before  king  Ahasuerus;  and  let 
the  king  give  her  royal  state  unto  another  that  is  better 
than  she.  And  when  the  king's  decree  which  he  shall 
make  shall  be  published  throughout  all  his  kingdom, 
(for  it  is  great,)  all  the  wives  shall  give  to  their  hus- 
bands honour,  both  to  great  and  small." 

And  the  saying  pleased  the  king  and  the  princes;  and 
the  king  did  according  to  the  word  of  Memucan :  for 
he  sent  letters  into  all  the  king's  provinces,  into  every 
province  according  to  the  writing  thereof,  and  to  every 
people  after  their  language,  that  every  man  should  bear 
rule  in  his  own  house,  and  should  publish  it  according 
to  the  language  of  the  people. 

(2)  The  'preparations  for  the  appointment  of  Vashti's 
successor  —  After  these  things,  when  the  wrath  of  king 
Ahasuerus  was  pacified,  he  remembered  Vashti,  and  what 
she  had  done,  and  what  was  decreed  against  her.  Then 
said  the  king's  servants  that  ministered  unto  him,  "Let 
there  be  fair  young  virgins  sought  for  the  king :  and  let 
the  king  appoint  officers  in  all  the  provinces  of  his  king- 
dom, that  they  may  gather  together  all  the  fair  young 
virgins  unto  Shushan  the  palace,  to  the  house  of  the 
women,  unto  the  custody  of  Hegai,  the  king's  chamber- 
lain, keeper  of  the  women;  and  let  their  things  for  puri- 
fication be  given  them :  and  let  the  maiden  which  pleas- 
eth  the  king  be  queen  instead  of  Vashti.  And  the  thing 
pleased  the  king;  and  he  did  so. 

(3)  The  Introduction  of  Mordecai  and  Esther  — 
There  was  a  certain  Jew  in  Shushan  the  palace,  whose 
name  was  Mordecai,  the  son  of  Jair,  the  son  of  Shimei, 
the  son  of  Kish,  a  Benjaminite;  who  had  been  carried 
away  from   Jerusalem  with  the   captives   which   had 

\ 


ESTHER  211 

been  carried  away  with  Jeconiah  king  of  Judah,  whom 
Nebuchadnezzar  the  king  of  Bal)ylon  had  carried  away. 
And  he  brought  up  Hadassah,  that  is,  Esther,  his  uncle's 
daughter:  for  she  had  neither  father  nor  mother,  and 
the  maiden  was  fair  and  beautiful ;  and  when  her  father 
and  mother  were  dead,  Mordecai  took  her  for  his  own 
daughter. 

(4)  Esther^ s  year  of  preparation  in  the  house  of  Ilegai 
—  So  it  came  to  pass,  when  the  king's  commandment 
and  his  decree  was  heard,  and  when  many  maidens 
were  gathered  together  unto  Shushan  the  palace,  to 
the  custody  of  Hegai,  that  Esther  was  taken  into  the 
king's  house,  to  the  custody  of  Hegai,  keeper  of  the 
women.  And  the  maiden  pleased  him,  and  she  obtained 
kindness  of  him;  and  he  speedily  gave  her  her  things  for 
purification,  with  her  portions,  and  the  seven  maidens, 
which  were  meet  to  be  given  her,  out  of  the  king's  house : 
and  he  removed  her  and  her  maidens  to  the  best  place 
of  the  house  of  the  women.  Esther  had  not  shewed  her 
people  nor  her  kindred:  for  Mordecai  had  charged  her 
that  she  should  not  shew  it.  And  Mordecai  walked  every 
day  before  the  court  of  the  women's  house,  to  know  how 
Esther  did,  and  what  should  become  of  her. 

Now  when  the  turn  of  every  maiden  was  come  to  go 
in  to  king  Ahasuerus,  after  that  it  had  been  done  to  her 
according  to  the  law  for  the  women,  twelve  months,  then 
in  this  wise  came  the  maiden  unto  the  king;  whatsoever 
she  desired  was  given  her  to  go  with  her  out  of  the  house 
of  the  women  unto  the  king's  house.  In  the  evening  she 
went,  and  on  the  morrow  she  returned  into  the  second 
house  of  the  women,  to  the  custody  of  Shaashgaz,  the 
king's  chamberlain,  which  kept  the  concubines :  she  came 
in  unto  the  king  no  more,  except  the  king  delighted  in 
her,  and  that  she  were  called  by  name. 


212  PLOT 

(5)  Iler  coronation  —  Now  when  the  turn  of  Esther, 
the  daughter  of  Abihail,  the  uncle  of  Mordecai,  who  had 
taken  her  for  his  daughter,  was  come  to  go  in  unto  the 
king,  she  required  nothing  but  what  Hegai  the  king's 
chamberlain,  the  keeper  of  the  women,  appointed. 
And  Esther  obtained  favour  in  the  sight  of  all  them  that 
looked  upon  her.  So  Esther  was  taken  unto  king  Ahas- 
uerus  into  his  house  royal  in  the  tenth  month,  which 
is  the  month  Tebeth,  in  the  seventh  year  of  his  reign. 
And  the  king  loved  Esther  above  all  the  women,  and  she 
obtained  grace  and  favour  in  his  sight  more  than  all  the 
virgins;  so  that  he  set  the  royal  crown  upon  her  head, 
and  made  her  queen  instead  of  Vashti.  Then  the  king 
made  a  great  feast  unto  all  his  princes  and  his  servants, 
even  Esther's  feast;  and  he  made  a  release  to  the  pro- 
vinces, and  gave  gifts,  according  to  the  bounty  of  the 
king. 

(6)  The  conspiracy  of  Bigthan  and  Teresh;  Mordecai' s 
service  to  the  king  —  And  when  the  virgins  were  gathered 
together  the  second  time,  then  Mordecai  sat  in  the  king's 
gate.  Esther  had  not  yet  shewed  her  kindred  nor  her 
people;  as  Mordecai  had  charged  her:  for  Esther  did 
the  commandmant  of  Mordecai,  like  as  when  she  was 
brought  up  with  him.  In  those  days,  while  Mordecai 
sat  in  the  king's  gate,  two  of  the  king's  chamberlains, 
Bigthan  and  Teresh,  of  those  which  kept  the  door,  were 
wroth,  and  sought  to  lay  hands  on  the  king  Ahasuerus. 
And  the  thing  was  known  to  Mordecai,  who  shewed  it 
unto  Esther  the  queen;  and  Esther  told  the  king  thereof 
in  Mordecai's  name.  And  when  inquisition  was  made  of 
the  matter,  and  it  was  found  to  be  so,  they  were  both 
hanged  on  a  tree:  and  it  was  written  in  the  book  of  the 
chronicles  before  the  king. 


ESTHER  213 

n 

EXCITING    FORCE 

After  these  things  did  king  Ahasuerus  promote  Hanian, 
the  son  of  Hammedatha  the  Agagite,  and  advanced  him 
and  his  seat  above  all  the  princes  that  were  with  him. 
And  all  the  king's  servants,  that  were  in  the  king's  gate, 
bowed  do^vn,  and  did  reverence  to  Hanian;  for  the  king 
had  so  commanded  concerning  him.  But  Mordecai 
bowed  not  down,  nor  did  him  reverence. 

Then  the  king's  servants,  that  were  in  the  king's 
gate,  said  unto  Mordecai:  "Why  trangressest  thou  the 
king's  commandment  ?" 

Now  it  came  to  pass,  when  they  spake  daily  unto  him, 
and  he  hearkened  not  unto  them,  that  they  told  Haman, 
to  see  whether  Mordecai's  matters  would  stand:  for  he 
had  told  them  that  he  was  a  Jew.  And  when  Haman  saw 
that  Mordecai  bowed  not  down,  nor  did  him  reverence, 
then  was  Haman  full  of  wrath.  But  he  thought  scorn 
to  lay  hands  on  Mordecai  alone;  for  they  had  shewed 
him  the  people  of  Mordecai :  wherefore  Haman  sought  to 
destroy  all  the  Jews  that  were  throughout  the  whole 
kingdom  of  Ahasuerus,  even  the  people  of  Mordecai. 

Ill 

RISING    ACTION 

(1)  Hainan's  plan  of  revenge — In  the  first  month, 
which  is  the  month  Nisan,  in  the  twelfth  year  of  king 
Ahasuerus,  thej"^  cast  Pur,  that  is,  the  lot,  before  Haman 
from  day  to  day,  and  from  month  to  month,  to  the 
twelfth  montJi,  which  is  the  month  Adar. 


214  PLOT 

And  Haman  said  unto  king  Ahasuenis:  "There  is  a 
certain  people  scattered  abroad  and  dispersed  among 
the  peoples  in  all  the  provinces  of  thy  kingdom;  and  their 
laws  are  diverse  from  those  of  every  people;  neither 
keep  they  the  king's  laws:  therefore  it  is  not  for  the 
king's  profit  to  suffer  them.  If  it  please  the  king,  let  it 
be  written  that  they  be  destroyed :  and  I  will  pay  ten 
thousand  talents  of  silver  into  the  hands  of  those  that 
have  charge  of  the  king's  business,  to  bring  it  mto  the 
king's  treasuries." 

And  the  king  took  his  ring  from  his  hand,  and  gave 
it  unto  Haman,  the  son  of  Hammedatha  the  Agagite, 
the  Jews'  enemy. 

And  the  king  said  unto  Haman:  "The  silver  is  given 
to  thee,  the  people  also,  to  do  with  them  as  it  seemeth 
good  to  thee." 

Then  were  the  king's  scribes  called  in  the  first  month, 
on  the  thirteenth  day  thereof,  and  there  was  written 
according  to  all  that  Haman  commanded  unto  the 
king's  satraps,  and  to  the  governors  that  were  over 
every  province,  and  to  the  princes  of  every  people; 
to  every  province  according  to  the  writing  thereof, 
and  to  every  people  after  their  language:  in  the  name  of 
king  Ahasuerus  was  it  written,  and  it  was  sealed  with 
the  king's  ring.  And  letters  were  sent  by  posts  into  all 
the  king's  provinces,  to  destroy,  to  slay,  and  to  cause  tc 
perish,  all  Jews,  both  young  and  old,  little  children  and 
women,  in  one  day,  even  upon  the  thirteenth  day  of  the 
twelfth  month,  which  is  the  month  Adar,  and  to  take 
the  spoil  of  them  for  a  prey.  A  copy  of  the  writing,  that 
the  decree  should  be  given  out  in  every  province,  was 
pu})li.shed  unto  all  the  peoples,  that  they  should  be 
ready  against  that  day.  The  posts  went  forth  in  haste 
by  the  king's  commandment,  and  the  decree  was  given 


ESTHER  215 

out  in  Shushan  the  palace.  And  the  king  and  Haman 
sat  down  to  drink;  but  the  city  of  Shushan  was  per- 
plexed. 

(2)  The  responsibility  imposed  upon  Esther  by  Mor- 
decai  —  Now  when  Mordecai  knew  all  that  was  done, 
Mordecai  rent  his  clothes,  and  put  on  sackcloth  with 
ashes,  and  went  out  into  the  midst  of  the  city,  and 
cried  with  a  loud  and  bitter  cry:  and  he  came  even  be- 
fore the  king's  gate:  for  none  might  enter  within  the 
king's  gate  clothed  with  sackcloth.  And  in  every  pro- 
vince whithersoever  the  king's  commandment  and  his 
decree  came,  there  was  great  mourning  among  the  Jews, 
and  fasting,  and  wailing;  and  many  lay  in  sackcloth  and 
ashes. 

And  Esther's  maidens  and  her  chamberlains  came 
and  told  it  her;  and  the  queen  was  exceedingly  grieved: 
and  she  sent  raiment  to  clothe  Mordecai,  and  to  take 
his  sackcloth  from  off  him :  but  he  received  it  not.  Then 
called  Esther  for  Hathach,  one  of  the  king's  chamber- 
lains, whom  he  had  appointed  to  attend  upon  her,  and 
charged  him  to  go  to  Mordecai,  to  know  what  this  was, 
and  why  it  was.  So  Hathach  went  forth  to  Mordecai 
unto  the  broad  place  of  the  city,  which  was  before  the 
king's  gate.  And  Mordecai  told  him  of  all  that  had  hap- 
pened unto  him,  and  the  exact  sum  of  the  money  that 
Haman  had  promised  to  pay  to  the  king's  treasuries  for 
the  Jews,  to  destroy  them.  And  he  gave  him  the  copy 
of  the  writing  of  the  decree  that  was  given  out  in  Shu- 
shan to  destroy  them,  to  shew  it  unto  Esther,  and  to 
declare  it  unto  her;  and  to  charge  her  that  she  should 
go  in  unto  the  king,  to  make  su])plication  unto  him, 
and  to  make  request  before  him,  for  her  people.  And 
Hathach  came  and  told  Esther  the  words  of  INIordecai. 

Then  Esther  spake  unto  Hathach,  and  gave   him  a 


216  PLOT 

message  unto  Mordecai,  saying:  "All  the  king's  ser- 
vants, and  the  people  of  the  king's  provinces,  do  know, 
that  whosoever,  whether  man  or  woman,  shall  come 
unto  the  king  into  the  inner  court,  who  is  not  called, 
there  is  one  law  for  him,  that  he  be  put  to  death,  except 
such  to  whom  the  king  shall  hold  out  the  golden  sceptre, 
that  he  may  live :  but  I  have  not  been  called  to  come  in 
unto  the  king  these  thirty  days." 

And  they  told  to  Mordecai  Esther's  words. 

Then  Mordecai  bade  them  return  answer  unto  Esther : 
"Think  not  with  thyself  that  thou  shalt  escape  in  the 
king's  house,  more  than  all  the  Jews.  For  if  thou  alto- 
gether boldest  thy  peace  at  this  time,  then  shall  relief 
and  deliverance  arise  to  the  Jews  from  another  place, 
but  thou  and  thy  father's  house  shall  perish.  And  who 
knoweth  whether  thou  art  not  come  to  the  kingdom  for 
such  a  time  as  this.''" 

Then  Esther  bade  them  return  answer  to  Mordecai: 
"Go,  gather  together  all  the  Jews  that  are  present  in 
Shushan,  and  fast  ye  for  me,  and  neither  eat  nor  drink 
three  days,  night  or  day:  I  also  and  my  maidens  will 
fast  in  like  manner;  and  so  will  I  go  in  unto  the  king, 
which  is  not  according  to  the  law:  and  if  I  perish,  I 
perish." 

So  Mordecai  went  his  way,  and  did  according  to  all 
that  Esther  had  commanded  him, 

(3)  Esther's  audience  with  the  king;  her  banquet  to  the 
king  and  to  Haman  —  Now  it  came  to  pass  on  the  third 
day,  that  Esther  put  on  her  royal  apparel,  and  stood  in 
the  inner  court  of  the  king's  house,  over  against  the 
king's  house:  and  the  king  sat  upon  his  royal  throne  in 
the  royal  house,  over  against  the  entrance  of  the  house. 
And  it  was  so,  when  the  king  saw  Esther  the  queen 
standing  in  the  court,  that  she  obtained  favour  in  his 


ESTHER  217 

sight:  and  the  king  held  out  to  Esther  the  golden  sceptre 
that  was  in  his  hand.  So  Esther  drew  near,  and  touched 
the  top  of  the  sceptre. 

Then  said  the  king  unto  her:  "What  wilt  thou,  queen 
Esther?  and  what  is  thy  request?  it  shall  be  given  thee 
even  to  the  half  of  the  kingdom." 

And  Esther  said:  "If  it  seem  good  unto  the  king,  let 
the  king  and  Haman  come  this  day  unto  the  banquet 
that  I  have  prepared  for  him." 

Then  the  king  said:  "Cause  Haman  to  make  haste, 
that  it  may  be  done  as  Esther  hath  said." 

So  the  king  and  Haman  came  to  the  banquet  that 
Esther  had  prepared. 

And  the  king  said  unto  Esther  at  the  banquet  of  wine: 
"What  is  thy  petition?  and  it  shall  be  granted  thee: 
and  what  is  thy  request?  even  to  the  half  of  the  kingdom 
it  shall  be  performed." 

Then  answered  Esther,  and  said:  "My  petition  and 
my  request  is,  if  I  have  found  favour  in  the  sight  of  the 
king,  and  if  it  please  the  king  to  grant  my  petition,  and 
to  perform  my  request,  let  the  king  and  Haman  come 
to  the  banquet  that  I  shall  prepare  for  them,  and  I 
will  do  to-morrow  as  the  king  hath  said." 

(4)  Haman' s  confidence  and  pride  —  Then  went 
Haman  forth  that  day  joyful  and  glad  of  heart:  but 
when  Haman  saw  Mordecai  in  the  king's  gate,  that  he 
stood  not  up  nor  moved  for  him,  he  was  filled  with  wrath 
against  Mordecai.  Nevertheless  Haman  refrained  him- 
self, and  went  home;  and  he  sent  and  fetched  his  friends 
and  Zeresh  his  wife.  And  Haman  recounted  unto  them 
the  glory  of  his  riches,  and  the  multitude  of  his  children, 
and  all  the  things  wherein  the  king  had  promoted  him, 
and  how  he  had  advanced  him  above  the  princes  and 
servants  of  the  king. 


218  PLOT 

Haman  said  moreover:  "Yea,  Esther  the  queen  did 
let  no  man  come  in  with  the  king  unto  the  banquet 
that  she  had  prepared  but  myself;  and  to-morrow  also 
am  I  invited  by  her  together  with  the  king.  Yet  all  this 
availeth  me  nothing,  so  long  as  I  see  Mordecai  the  Jew 
sitting  at  the  King's  gate." 

Then  said  Zeresh  his  wife  and  all  his  friends  unto  him : 
"Let  a  gallows  be  made  of  fifty  cubits  high,  and  in  the 
morning  speak  thou  unto  the  king  that  Mordecai  may 
be  hanged  thereon;  then  go  thou  in  merrily  with  the 
king  in  to  the  banquet." 

And  the  thing  pleased  Haman;  and  he  caused  the  gal- 
lows to  be  made. 

(5)  The  king  reminded  of  Mordecai' s  service  —  On  that 
night  could  not  the  king  sleep;  and  he  commanded  to 
bring  the  book  of  records  of  the  chronicles,  and  they 
were  read  before  the  king.  And  it  was  found  written 
that  Mordecai  had  told  of  Bigthana  and  Teresh,  two 
of  the  king's  chamberlains,  of  those  that  kept  the  door, 
who  had  sought  to  lay  hands  on  the  king  Ahasuerus. 

And  the  king  said:  "What  honour  and  dignity  hath 
been  done  to  Mordecai  for  this?" 

Then  said  the  king's  servants  that  ministered  unto 
him:  "There  is  nothing  done  for  him." 

And  the  king  said:  "Who  is  in  the  court?" 

Now  Haman  was  come  into  the  outward  court  of  the 
king's  house,  to  speak  unto  the  king  to  hang  Mordecai 
on  the  gallows  that  he  had  prepared  for  him. 

And  the  king's  servants  said  unto  him:  "Behold, 
Haman  standeth  in  the  court." 

And  the  king  said:  "Let  him  come  in." 

So  Haman  came  in. 


ESTHER  219 

IV 

THE   CLIMAX 

And  the  king  said  unto  him:  "What  shall  be  done 
unto  the  man  whom  the  king  dehghteth  to  honor?" 

Now  Haman  said  in  his  heart:  "To  whom  would  the 
king  delight  to  do  honor  more  than  to  myself?"  And 
Haman  said  unto  the  king:  "For  the  man  whom  the  king 
delighteth  to  honor,  let  royal  apparel  be  brought  which 
the  king  useth  to  wear,  and  the  horse  that  the  king  rideth 
upon,  and  on  the  head  of  which  a  crown  royal  is  set: 
and  let  the  apparel  and  the  horse  be  delivered  to  the 
hand  of  one  of  the  king's  most  noble  princes,  that  they 
may  array  the  man  withal  whom  the  king  delighteth  to 
honor,  and  cause  him  to  ride  on  horseback  through  the 
streets  of  the  city,  and  proclaim  before  him : '  Thus  shall 
it  be  done  to  the  man  whom  the  king  delighteth  to 
honor.'" 

Then  the  king  said  to  Haman:  "Make  haste,  and  take 
the  apparel  and  the  horse,  as  thou  hast  said,  and  do 
even  so  to  Mordecai  the  Jew,  that  sitteth  at  the  king's 
gate:  let  nothing  fail  of  all  that  thou  hast  spoken." 


THE   FALLING    ACTION 

(1)  The  fall  of  TIaman's  pride  —  Then  took  Haman 
the  apparel  and  the  horse,  and  arrayed  Mordecai,  and 
caused  him  to  ride  through  the  streets  of  the  city,  and 
proclaimed  before  him:  "Thus  shall  it  be  done  unto  the 
man  whom  the  king  delighteth  to  honor."  And  Mor- 
decai came  again  unto  the  king's  gate. 


220  PLOT 

But  Haman  hasted  to  his  house,  mourning  and  having 
his  head  covered.  And  Haman  recounted  unto  Zeresh 
his  wife  and  all  his  friends  everything  that  had  be- 
fallen him. 

Then  said  his  wise  men  and  Zeresh  his  wife  unto 
him:  "If  Mordecai,  before  whom  thou  hast  begun  to  fall, 
be  of  the  seed  of  the  Jews,  thou  shalt  not  prevail  against 
him,  but  shalt  surely  fall  before  him." 

While  they  were  yet  talking  with  him,  came  the 
king's  chamberlains,  and  hasted  to  bring  Haman  unto 
the  banquet  that  Esther  had  prepared. 

(2)  The  banquet  of  wine  —  So  the  king  and  Haman 
came  to  banquet  with  Esther  the  queen. 

And  the  king  said  again  unto  Esther  on  the  second 
day  at  the  banquet  of  wine:  "What  is  thy  petition, 
queen  Esther?  and  it  shall  be  granted  thee:  and  what  is 
thy  request.''  even  to  the  half  of  the  kingdom  it  shall  be 
performed." 

Then  Esther  the  queen  answered  and  said:  "If  I  have 
found  favor  in  thy  sight,  O  king,  and  if  it  please  the 
king,  let  my  life  be  given  me  at  my  petition,  and  my 
people  at  my  request :  for  we  are  sold,  I  and  my  people, 
to  be  destroyed,  to  be  slain,  and  to  perish.  But  if  we  had 
been  sold  for  bondmen  and  bondwomen,  I  had  held 
my  peace,  although  the  adversary  could  not  have  com- 
pensated for  the  king's  damage." 

Then  spake  the  king  Ahasuerus  and  said  unto  Esther 
the  queen:  "Who  is  he,  that  durst  presume  in  his  heart 
to  do  so?" 

And  Esther  said:  "An  adversary  and  an  enemy,  even 
this  wicked  Haman." 

Then  Haman  was  afraid  before  the  king  and  the 
queen.  And  the  king  arose  in  his  wrath  from  the  ban- 
quet of  wine  and  went  into  the  palace  garden:  and 


ESTHER  221 

Ilaman  stood  up  to  make  request  for  his  life  to  Esther 
the  queen:  for  he  saw  that  there  was  evil  determined 
against  him  by  the  king. 

VI 

THE   CATASTROPHE 

Then  the  king  returned  out  of  the  palace  garden  into 
the  place  of  the  banquet  of  wine;  and  Haman  was 
fallen  upon  the  couch  whereon  Esther  was. 

Then  said  the  king:  "Will  he  even  force  the  queen 
before  me  in  the  house?" 

As  the  word  went  out  of  the  king's  mouth,  they  cov- 
ered Haman 's  face. 

Then  said  Harbonah,  one  of  the  chamberlains  that 
were  before  the  king:  "Behold,  also,  the  gallows  fifty 
cubits  high,  which  Haman  hath  made  for  ISIordecai, 
who  spake  good  for  the  king,  standeth  in  the  house  of 
Haman." 

And  the  king  said:  "Hang  him  thereon." 

So  they  hanged  Haman  on  the  gallows  that  he  had 
prepared  for  Mordecai.  Then  was  the  king's  wrath 
pacified. 


THE  BLACK   POODLE^ 

BY  FRANK  ANSTEY 

The  dramatic  structure  illustrated  in  Esther  is  too  limited 
in  the  scope  of  its  subject-matter  and  too  elaborate  in  form  for 
general  use  in  narrative  prose  composition.  A  more  common 
ordering  of  plot  details  is  found  in  what  has  been  called  the 
"method  of  story."  In  this  the  climax,  instead  of  standing  mid- 
way between  the  beginning  and  the  end,  stands  at  the  end  and 
is  a  combination  of  climax  and  catastrophe.  Narrative  of  this 
type  presents  the  prefatory  exposition,  the  exciting  force,  and 
a  rising  action  of  several  episodes  leading  to  the  climax-catas- 
trophe. This,  in  turn,  is  followed  by  a  more  or  less  fully  elab- 
orated post-exposition,  or  adjustment  of  characters  and  action 
as  seen  under  the  new  conditions  established  by  the  course 
of  events  developed  in  the  course  of  the  narrative.  Of  this 
"method  of  story"  The  Black  Poodle  offers  illustration,  as  will 
be  seen  from  the  following  analysis :  —  ^ 

1.  Preliminary  exposition. 

a.  Motive  of  the  story. 

b.  Setting:  Wistaria  Villa. 

c.  Dramatis  person(E:  the  Weatherheads. 
S^d.  Antecedent  action. 

2.  Introdoctory  action. 

a.  At  Shuturgardcn. 

Introduction  of  Bingo. 
Incipient  love  for  Lilian. 
Bingo's  hostility. 

b.  At  Wistaria  Villa. 

Feline  amenities. 

3.  Moment  of  exciting  force. 

Bingo's  death. 

4.  Rising  action  of  compucation. 

Complication  1.  In  the  garden  at  Wistaria  Villa. 
With  the  Colonel. 

*  By  permission  of  Longmans,  Green  &  Co. 

*  Rhetorical  Principles  of  Narration,  pp.  222-24. 


THE   BLACK  P0G3LE 

Bingo's  burial. 

Visions.       ' 
Complication  2.  At  Shuturgarden :  one  evening  later. 

Family  desolation. 

Weathcrhead's  encouragement. 

Lilian's  incredulity. 
Complication  3.  At  Shuturgarden:  Sunday  evening. 

The  declaration.  ' 

Lilian's  condition. 

Weathcrhead's  resolution. 
Complication  4. 

a.  At  Blagg's.  ^ 

The  discovery  and  the  purchase. 

b.  At  Wistaria  Villa.       / 
The  restoration. 

The  dinner. 

Bingo's  accomplishments. 
Complication  5.  At  Wistaria  Villa. 
The  strolling  Frenchman. 
"Azor"! 

Compounding  a  felony. 
The  collar. 
6.  Climax. 

Revelation  and  desperation. 
6.  Conclusion. 
The  tablet. 

The  course  of  the  story  might  be  diagrammatically  presented 
as  in  the  following  figure :  — 


224  PLOT 

I  HAVE  set  myself  the  task  of  relating  in  the  course 
of  this  story,  without  suppressing  or  altering  a  single 
detail,  the  most  painful  and  humiliating  episode  in  my 
life. 

I  do  this,  not  because  it  will  give  me  the  least  pleas- 
ure, but  simply  because  it  affords  me  an  opportunity 
of  extenuating  myself,  which  has  hitherto  been  wholly 
denied  to  me. 

As  a  general  rule,  I  am  quite  aware  that  to  publish  a 
lengthy  explanation  of  one's  conduct  in  any  question- 
able transaction  is  not  the  best  means  of  recovering  a 
lost  reputation;  but  in  my  own  case  there  is  one  to  whom 
I  shall  nevermore  be  permitted  to  justify  myself  by  word 
of  mouth  —  even  if  I  found  myself  able  to  attempt  it. 
And  as  she  could  not  possibly  think  worse  of  me  than  she 
does  at  present,  I  write  this,  knowing  it  can  do  me  no 
harm,  and  faintly  hoping  that  it  may  come  to  her  notice 
and  suggest  a  doubt  whether  I  am  quite  so  unscrupu- 
lous a  villian,  so  consummate  a  hypocrite,  as  I  have  been 
forced  to  appear  in  her  eyes. 

The  bare  chance  of  such  a  result  makes  me  perfectly 
indifferent  to  all  else;  I  cheerfully  expose  to  the  derision 
of  the  whole  reading  world  the  story  of  my  weakness 
and  my  shame,  since  by  doing  so  I  may  possibly  reha- 
bilitate myself  somewhat  in  the  good  opinion  of  one 
person. 

Having  said  so  much,  I  will  begin  my  confession  with- 
out further  delay, 

""^  My  name  is  Algernon  Weatherhead,  and  I  may  add 
that  I  am  in  one  of  the  government  departments,  that 
I  am  an  only  son,  and  live  at  home  with  my  mother. 

We  had  had  a  house  at  Hammersmith  until  just  be- 
fore the  period  covered  by  this  history,  when,  our  lease 
expiring,  my  mother  decided  that  my  health  rec  uired 
country  air  at  the  close  of  the  day,  and  so  we  t  )ok  a 


THE  BLACK  POODLE  225 

"  desirable  villa  residence  "  on  one  of  the  many  new  build- 
ing estates  which  have  lately  sprung  up  in  such  profu- 
sion in  the  home  counties. 

We  have  called  it  "Wistaria  Villa."  It  is  a  pretty 
little  place,  the  last  of  a  row  of  detached  villas,  each 
with  its  tiny  rustic  carriage-gate  and  gravel  sweep  in 
front,  and  lawn  enough  for  a  tennis-court  behind,  which 
lines  the  road  leading  over  the  hill  to  the  railway-station. 

I  could  certainly  have  wished  that  our  landlord, 
shortly  after  giving  us  the  agreement,  could  have  found 
some  other  place  to  hang  himself  in  than  one  of  our 
attics,  for  the  consequence  was  that  a  housemaid  left 
us  in  violent  hysterics  about  every  two  months,  having 
learned  the  tragedy  from  the  tradespeople,  and  natur- 
ally "seen  a  somethink"  immediately  afterward. 

Still  it  is  a  pleasant  house,  and  I  can  now  almost 
forgive  the  landlord  for  what  I  shall  always  consider  an 
act  of  gross  selfishness  on  his  part. 

In  the  country,  even  so  near  town,  a  next-door  neigh- 
bor is  something  more  than  a  mere  numeral ;  he  is  a  pos- 
sible acquaintance,  who  will  at  least  consider  a  new- 
comer as  worth  the  experiment  of  a  call.  I  soon  knew 
that  "Shuturgarden,"  the  next  house  to  our  o^^•n,  was 
occupied  by  a  Colonel  Curric,  a  retired  Indian  officer; 
and  often,  as  across  the  low  boundary  wall  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  graceful  girlish  figure  flitting  about  among 
the  rosebushes  in  the  neighboring  garden,  I  would  lose 
myself  in  pleasant  anticipations  of  a  time  not  far  dis- 
tant when  the  wall  which  separated  us  would  be  (meta- 
phorically) leveled. 

I  remember  —  ah,  how  vividly !  —  the  thrill  of  ex- 
citement with  which  I  heard  from  my  mother,  on  re- 
turning from  town  one  evening,  that  the  Curries  had 
called,  and  seemed  disposed  to  be  all  that  was  neigh- 
borly ,and  kind. 


\ 


2£6  PLOT 

I  remember,  too,  the  Sunday  afternoon  on  which  I 
returned  their  call  —  alone,  as  my  mother  had  already 
done  so  during  the  week.  I  was  standing  on  the  steps  of 
the  colonel's  villa,  waiting  for  the  door  to  open,  when  I 
was  startled  by  a  furious  snarling  and  yapping  behind, 
and,  looking  round,  discovered  a  large  poodle  in  the  act 
of  making  for  my  legs. 
■  He  was  a  coal-black  poodle,  with  half  of  his  right  ear 
gone,  and  absurd  little  thick  mustaches  at  the  end  of 
his  nose;  he  was  shaved  in  the  sham-lion  fashion,  which 
is  considered,  for  some  mysterious  reason,  to  improve 
a  poodle,  but  the  barber  had  left  sundry  little  tufts  of 
hair,  which  studded  his  haunches  capriciously. 

I  could  not  help  being  reminded,  as  I  looked  at  him,  of 
another  black  poodle,  which  Fajiat  entertained  for  a 
short  time  with  unhappy  results,  and  I  thought  that  & 
very  moderate  degree  of  incantation  would  be  enough 
to  bring  the  fiend  out  of  this  brute. 

He  made  me  intensely  uncomfortable,  for  I  am  of  a 
slightly  nervous  temperament,  with  a  cgnstituti^al 
^  hoTTojc^efVAogs,  and  a  liability  to  attacks  of  dijBBdence  on 
performing  the  ordinary  social  rites  under  the  most 
favorable  conditions,  and  certainly  the  consciousness 
that  a  strange  and  apparently  savage  dog  was  engaged  in 
worrying  the  heels  of  my  boots  was  the  reverse  of  reas- 
suring. 

The  Currie  family  received  me  with  all  possible  kind- 
ness. "So  charmed  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Mr. 
Weatherhead,"  said  Mrs.  Currie,  as  I  shook  hands.  I 
see, "  she  added,  pleasantly,  "you  've  brought  the  doggie 
in  with  you."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  brought  the  dog- 
gie in  at  the  ends  of  my  coat-tails;  but  it  was  evidently 
no  unusual  occurrence  for  visitors  to  appear  in  this 
undignified  manner,  for  she  detached  him  quit^  as  a 


THE   BLACK   POODLE  227 

matter  of  course,  and  as  soon  as  I  was  sufficiently  col- 
lected we  fell  into  conversation. 

I  discovered  that  the  colonel  and  his  wife  were  child- 
less, and  the  slender  willowy  figure  I  had  seen  across  the 
garden  wall  was  that  of  Lilian  Roseblade,  their  niece 
and  adopted  daughter.  She  came  into  the  room  shortly 
afterward,  and  I  felt,  as  I  went  through  the  form  of  an 
introduction,  that  her  sweet,  fresh  face,  shaded  by  soft 
masses  of  dusky-brown  hair,  more  than  justified  all  the 
dreamy  hopes  and  fancies  with  which  I  had  looked  for- 
ward to  that  moment. 

She  talked  to  me  in  a  pretty,  confidential,  appealing 
way,  which  I  have  heard  her  dearest  friends  censure 
as  childish  and  affected;  but  I  thought  then  that  her 
manner  had  an  indescribable  charm  and  fascination 
about  it,  and  the  memory  of  it  makes  my  heart  ache 
now  with  a  pang  that  is  not  all  pain. 

Even  before  the  colonel  made  his  appearance  I  had 
begun  to  see  that  my  enemy,  the  poodle,  occupied  an^ 
exceptional  position  in  that  household.    It  was  abun- 
dantly clear  by  the  time  I  took  my  leave. 

He  seemed  to  be  the  center  of  their  domestic  system,  a- 
and  even  lovely  Lilian  revolved  contentedly  around  him 
as  a  kind  of  satellite;  he  could  do  no  wrong  in  his  own- 
er's eyes,  his  prejudices  (and  he  was  a  narrow-minded 
animal)  were  rigorously  respected,  and  all  domestic 
arrangements  were  made  with  a  primary  view  to  his 
convenience. 

I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  cannot  think  that  it  is  wise 
to  put  any  poodle  upon  such  a  pedestal  as  that.  How 
this  one  in  particular,  as  ordinary  a  quadruped  as  ever 
breathed,  had  contrived  to  impose  thus  upon  his  in- 
fatuated proprietors,  I  never  could  understand,  but  so 
it  was;  he  even  engrossed  the  chief  part  of  tlie  conver- 


228  PLOT 

sation,  which  after  any  lull  seemed  to  veer  round  to  him 
by  a  sort  of  natural  law. 

I  had  to  endure  a  long  biographical  sketch  of  him,  — 
what  a  society  paper  would  call  an  "anecdotal  photo," 
—  and  each  fresh  anecdote  seemed  to  me  to  exhibit  the 
depraved  malignity  of  the  beast  in  a  more  glaring  light, 
and  render  the  doting  admiration  of  the  family  more 
astounding  than  ever. 

"Did  you  tell  Mr.  Weatherhead,  Lily,  about  Bingo" 
X (Bingo  was  the  poodle's  preposterous  name)  "and 
Tacks.''  No?  Oh,  I  must  tell  him  that;  it'll  make  him 
laugh.  Tacks  is  our  gardener  down  in  the  village  (d'ye 
know  Tacks?).  Well,  Tacks  was  up  here  the  other  day, 
nailing  up  some  trellis-work  at  the  top  of  a  ladder,  and 
all  the  time  there  was  Master  Bingo  sitting  quietly  at 
the  foot  of  it  looking  on;  wouldn't  leave  it  on  any 
account.  Tacks  said  he  was  quite  company  for  him. 
Well,  at  last,  when  Tacks  had  finished  and  was  coming 
down,  what  do  you  think  that  rascal  there  did?  Just 
sneaked  quietly  up  behind  and  nipped  him  in  both 
'<  calves  and  ran  off.  Been  looking  out  for  that  the  whole 
time!   Ha!  ha!  —  deep  that,  eh?" 

I  agreed,  with  an  inward  shudder,  that  it  was  very 
deep,  thinking  privately  that,  if  this  was  a  specimen  of 
Bingo's  usual  treatment  of  the  natives,  it  would  be  odd 
if  he  did  not  find  himself  deeper  still  before  —  probably 
just  before  —  he  died. 

"Poor,  faithful  old  doggie!"  murmured  Mrs.  Currie; 
"he  thought  Tacks  was  a  nasty  burglar,  did  n't  he?  He 
was  n't  going  to  see  master  robbed,  was  he?" 

" Capital  house-dog, sir," struck  in  the  Colonel.  "Gad, 

^I  shall  never  forget  how  he  made  poor  Heavisides  run 

for  it  the  other  day !  Ever  met  Heavisides  of  the  Bombay 

Fusileers?    Well,  Heavisides  was  staying  here,  4nd  the 


THE  BLACK  POODLE  229 

dog  met  him  one  morning  as  he  was  coming  do^Ti  from 
the  bathroom.  Did  n't  recognize  him  in  'pajamas'  and 
a  dressing-gown,  of  course,  and  made  at  him.  He  kept 
poor  old  Heavisides  outside  the  landing  window  on  the 
top  of  the  cistern  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  till  I  had  to 
come  and  raise  the  siege!" 

Such  were  the  stories  of  that  abandoned  dog's  blun- 

deihfiadedjerocity  to  which  I  was  forced  to  listen,  while 

all  the  time  the  brute  sat  opposite  me  on  the  hearth- 
rug, blinking  at  me  from  under  his  shaggy  mane  with  his 
evil,  bleared  eyes,  and  deliberating  where  he  would  have  ^ 
me^'hen  I  rose  to  go. 

"''^his  was  the  beginning  of  an  intimacy  which  soon  dis- 
placed all  ceremony.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  go  in  there 
after  dinner,  even  to  sit  with  the  colonel  over  his  claret, 
and  hear  more  stories  about  Bingo;  for  afterward  I 
could  go  into  the  pretty  drawing-room  and  take  my 
tea  from  Lilian's  hands,  and  listen  while  she  played 
Schubert  to  us  in  the  summer  twilight. 

The  poodle  was  always  in  the  way,  to  be  sure,  but  even 
his  ugly  black  head  seemed  to  lose  some  of  its  ugliness 
and  ferocity  when  Lilian  laid  her  pretty  hand  on  it. 

On  the  whole,  I  think  that  the  Currie  family  were 
well  disposed  toward  me,  the  colonel  considering  me  as 
a  harmless  specimen  of  the  average  eligible  young 
man,  —  which  I  certainly  was,  —  and  Mrs.  Currie  show- 
ing me  favor  for  my  mother's  sake,  for  whom  she  had 
taken  a  strong  liking. 

As  for  Lilian,  I  believed  I  saw  that  she  soon  suspected 
the  state  of  my  feelings  toward  her,  and  was  not  dis- 
pleased by  it.  I  looked  forward  with  some  hopefulness 
to  a  day  when  I  could  declare  myself  with  no  fear  of  a 
repulse. 

But  it  was  a  serious  obstacle  in  my  path  that  I  could 


230  PLOT 

not  secure  Bingo's  good  opinion  on  any  terms.  The  fam- 
ily would  often  lament  this  pathetically  themselves. 
"You  see,"  Mrs.  Currie  would  observe  in  apology, 
"Bingo  is  a  dog  that  does  not  attach  himself  easily  to 
strangers"  —  though,  for  that  matter,  I  thought  he  was 
unpleasantly  ready  to  attach  himself  to  me. 

I  did  try  hard  to  conciliate  him.  I  brought  him  pro- 
pitiatory buns,  which  was  weak  and  ineffectual,  as  he 
ate  them  with  avidity,  and  hated  me  as  bitterly  as  ever; 
for  he  had  conceived  from  the  first  a  profound  contempt 
for  me,  and  a  distrust  which  no  blandishments  of  mine 
could  remove.  Looking  back  now,  I  am  inclined  to  think 
it  was  a  prophetic  instinct  that  warned  him  of  what  was 
to  come  upon  him  through  my  instrumentality. 

Only  his  approbation  was  wanting  to  establish  for  me 
a  firm  footing  with  the  Curries,  and  perhaps  determine 
Lilian's  wavering  heart  in  my  direction;  but,  though  I 
wooed  that  inflexible  poodle  with  an  assiduity  I  blush  to 
remember,  he  remained  obstinately  firm. 

Still,  day  by  day  Lilian's  treatment  of  me  was  more 
encouraging;  day  by  day  I  gained  in  the  esteem  of  her 
uncle  and  aunt;  I  began  to  hope  that  soon  I  should  be 
able-to  disregard  canine  influence  altogether. 

Now  there  was  one  inconvenience  about  our  villa 
(besides  its  flavor  of  suicide)  which  it  is  necessary  to 
mention  here.  By  common  consent  all  the  cats  of  the 
neighborhood  had  selected  our  garden  for  their  evening 
reunions.  I  fancy  that  a  tortoise-shell  kitchen  cat  of 
ours  must  have  been  a  sort  of  leader  of  local  feline 
society  —  I  know  she  was  "at  home,"  with  music  and 
recitations,  on  most  evenings. 

My  poor  mother  found  this  interfere  with  her  after- 
dinner  nap,  and  no  wonder;  for  if  a  cohort  of  ghosts  had 
been  "shrieking  and  squealing,"  as  Calpurnia  puts  it. 


THE   BLACK  POODLE  231 

in  our  back  garden,  or  it  had  been  fitted  up  as  a  creche 
for  a  nursery  of  goblin  infants  in  the  agonies  of  teething, 
the  noise  could  not  possibly  have  been  more  unearthly. 

We  sought  for  some  means  of  getting  rid  of  the  nui- 
sance: there  was  poison,  of  course;  but  we  thought  it 
would  have  an  invidious  appearance,  and  even  lead  to 
legal  difficulties,  if  each  dawn  were  to  discover  an  assort- 
ment of  cats  expiring  in  hideous  convulsions  in  various 
parts  of  the  same  garden. 

Firearms  too  were  open  to  objection,  and  would 
scarcely  assist  my  mother's  slumbers;  so  for  some  time 
we  were  at  a  loss  for  a  remedy.  At  last,  one  day,  walk- 
ing dowTi  the  Strand,  I  chanced  to  see  (in  an  evil  hour) 
what  struck  me  as  the  very  thing:  it  was  an  air-gun  of 
superior  construction,  displayed  in  a  gimsmith's  window. 
I  went  in  at  once,  purchased  it,  and  took  it  home  in 
triumph;  it  would  be  noiseless,  and  would  reduce  the 
local  average  of  cats  without  scandal,  —  one  or  two 
examples,  —  and  feline  fashion  would  soon  migrate  to 
a  more  secluded  spot. 

I  lost  no  time  in  putting  this  to  the  proof.  That  same 
evening  I  lay  in  wait  after  dusk  at  the  study  window, 
protecting  my  mother's  repose.  As  soon  as  I  heard  the 
long-drawn  wail,  the  preliminary  sputter,  and  the  wild 
stampede  that  followed,  I  let  fly  in  the  direction  of  the 
sound.  I  suppose  I  must  have  something  of  the  national 
sporting  instinct  in  me,  for  my  blood  was  tingling  with 
excitement;  but  the  feline  constitution  assimilates  lead 
without  serious  inconvenience,  and  I  began  to  fear  that 
no  trophy  would  remain  to  bear  witness  to  my  marks- 
manship. 

But  all  at  once  I  made  out  a  dark,  indistinct  form 
slinking  in  from  behind  the  bushes.  I  waited  till  it 
crossed  the  belt  of  light  which  streamed  from  the  back 


232  PLOT 

kitchen  below  me,  and  then  I  took  careful  aim  and  pulled 
the  trigger. 

This  time  at  least  I  had  not  failed;  there  was  a 
smothered  yell,  a  rustle,  and  then  silence  again.  I  ran 
out  with  the  calm  pride  of  a  successful  revenge  to  bring 
in  the  body  of  my  victim,  and  I  found  underneath  a 
laurel  no  predatory  tom-cat,  but  (as  the  discerning  reader 
will  no  doubt  have  foreseen  long  since)  the  quivering 
carcass  of  the  colonel's  black  poodle! 

I  intend  to  set  down  here  the  exact  unvarnished  truth, 
and  I  confess  that  at  first,  when  I  knew  what  I  had  done, 
I  was  not  sorry.  I  was  quite  innocent  of  any  intention 
of  doing  it,  but  I  felt  no  regret.  I  even  laughed  —  mad- 
man that  I  was  —  at  the  thought  that  there  was  the  end 
of  Bingo,  at  all  events;  that  impediment ^vas  removed; 
my  weary  task  of  conciliation  was  over  for  ever! 

But  soon  the  reaction  came;  I  realized  the  tremen- 
dous nature  of  my  deed,  and  shuddered.  I  had  done  that 
which  might  banish  me  from  Lilian's  side  for  ever!  All 
unwittingly  I  had  slaughtered  a  kind  of  sacred  beast,  the 
animal  around  which  the  Currie  household  had  wreathed 
their  choicest  affections!  How  was  I  to  break  it  to  them.'* 
Should  I  send  Bingo  in,  with  a  card  tied  to  his  neck  and 
my  regrets  and  compliments?  That  was  too  much  like 
a  present  of  game.  Ought  I  not  to  carry  him  in  myself.'* 
I  would  wreathe  him  in  the  best  crape,  I  would  put  on 
black  for  him ;  the  Curries  would  hardly  consider  a  taper 
and  a  white  sheet,  or  sackcloth  and  ashes,  an  excessive 
form  of  atonement,  but  I  could  not  grovel  to  quite  such 
an  abject  extent. 

I  wondered  what  the  colonel  would  say.  Simple  and 
hearty,  as  a  general  rule,  he  had  a  hot  temper  on  occa- 
sions, and  it  made  me  ill  as  I  thought,  would  he  and, 
worse  still,  would  Lilian  believe  it  was  really  an  accident? 


TIIE   BLACK  POODLE  233 

They  knew  what  an  interest  I  had  in  silencing  the  de- 
ceased poodle  —  would  they  believe  the  simple  truth? 

I  vowed  that  they  should  believe  me.  My  genuine 
remorse  and  the  absence  of  all  concealment  on  my  part 
would  speak  powerfully  for  me.  I  would  choose  a  favor- 
able time  for  my  confession;  that  very  evening  I  would 
tell  all. 

Still  I  shrank  from  the  duty  before  me,  and,  as  I 
knelt  down  sorrowfully  by  the  dead  form  and  respect- 
fully composed  his  stiffening  limbs,  I  thought  that  it 
was  unjust  of  fate  to  place  a  well-meaning  man,  whose 
nerves  were  not  of  iron,  in  such  a  position. 

Then,  to  my  horror,  I  heard  a  well-kno^-n  ringing 
tramp  on  the  road  outside,  and  smelled  the  peculiar 
fragrance  of  a  Burmese  cheroot.  It  was  the  colonel 
himself,  who  had  been  taking  out  the  doomed  Bingo  for 
his  usual  evening  run. 

I  don't  know  how  it  was,  exactly,  but  a  sudden  panic 
came  over  me.  I  held  my  breath,  and  tried  to  crouch 
down  unseen  behind  the  laurels;  but  he  had  seen  me, 
and  came  over  at  once  to  speak  to  me  across  the  hedge. 

He  stood  there,  not  two  yards  from  his  favorite's 
body!  Fortunately  it  was  unusually  dark  that  evening. 

"Ha,  there  you  are,  eh?"  he  began,  heartily;  "don't 
rise,  my  boy,  don't  rise." 

I  was  trying  to  put  myself  in  front  of  the  poodle,  and 
did  not  rise  —  at  least,  only  my  hair  did. 

"You're  out  late,  ain't  you?"  he  went  on;  "laying 
out  your  garden,  hey?" 

I  could  not  tell  him  that  I  was  laying  out  his  poodle! 
My  voice  shook  as,  with  a  guilty  confusion  that  was 
veiled  by  the  dusk,  I  said  it  was  a  fine  evening  —  which 
it  was  not. 

"Cloudy,  sir,"  said  the  colonel,  "cloudy;  rain  before 


234  PLOT 

morning,  I  think.  By  the  way,  have  you  seen  anything 
of  my  Bingo  in  here?" 

This  was  the  turning-point.  What  I  ought  to  have 
done  was  to  say  mournfully,  "Yes,  I'm  sorry  to  say 
I've  had  a  most  unfortunate  accident  with  him.  Here 
he  is;  the  fact  is,  I'm  afraid  I've  shot  him!" 

But  I  could  n't.  I  could  have  told  him  at  my  own 
time,  in  a  prepared  form  of  words  —  but  not  then.  I 
felt  I  must  use  all  my  wits  to  gain  time,  and  fence  with 
the  questions. 

"Why,"  I  said,  with  a  leaden  airiness,  "he  has  n't 
given  you  the  slip,  has  he?" 

"Never  did  such  a  thing  in  his  life!"  said  the  colonel, 
warmly;  "he  rushed  off  after  a  rat  or  a  frog  or  some- 
thing a  few  minutes  ago,  and  as  I  stopped  to  light  an- 
other cheroot  I  lost  sight  of  him.  I  thought  I  saw  him 
slip  in  under  your  gate,  but  I  've  been  calling  him  from 
the  front  there  and  he  won't  come  out." 

No,  and  he  never  would  come  out  any  more.  But  the 
colonel  must  not  be  told  that  just  yet.  I  temporized 
again:  "If,"  I  said,  unsteadily  —  "if  he  had  slipped  in 
under  the  gate  I  should  have  seen  him.  Perhaps  he  took 
it  into  his  head  to  run  home?" 

"Oh,  I  shall  find  him  on  the  doorstep,  I  expect,  the 
knowing  old  scamp!  W^hy,  what  d'ye  think  was  the 
last  thing  he  did  now?" 

I  could  have  given  him  the  very  latest  intelligence,  but 
1  dared  not.  However,  it  was  altogether  too  ghastly  to 
kneel  there  and  laugh  at  anecdotes  of  Bingo  told  across 
Bingo's  dead  body;  I  could  not  stand  that !  "Listen,"  I 
said,  suddenly,  "wasn't  that  his  bark?  There,  again; 
it  seems  to  come  from  the  front  of  your  house,  don't 
you  think?" 

"Well,"  said  the  colonel,  "I'll  go  and  fasten  him  up 


THE  BLACK  POODLE  235 

before  he's  off  again.  How  your  teeth  are  chattering! 
You've  caught  a  chill,  man;  go  indoors  at  once,  and,  if 
you  feel  equal  to  it,  look  in  half  an  hour  later,  about 
grog-time,  and  I  '11  tell  you  all  about  it.  Conij)linients  to 
your  mother.    Don't  forget  —  about  grog-timej" 

I  had  got  rid  of  him  at  last,  and  I  wiped  my  forehead, 
gasping  with  relief.  I  would  go  round  in  half  an  hour, 
and  then  I  should  be  prepared  to  make  my  melancholy 
announcement.  For,  even  then,  I  never  thought  of  any 
other  course,  until  suddenly  it  flashed  upon  me  with 
terrible  clearness  that  my  miserable  shuffling  by  the 
hedge  had  made  it  impossible  to  tell  the  truth!  I  had 
not  told  a  direct  lie,  to  be  sure,  but  then  I  had  given  the 
colonel  the  impression  that  I  had  denied  having  seen  the 
dog.  Many  people  can  appease  their  consciences  by 
reflecting  that,  whatever  may  be  the  effect  their  words 
produce,  they  did  contrive  to  steer  clear  of  a  downright 
lie.  I  never  quite  knew  where  the  distinction  lay  mor- 
ally, but  there  is  that  feeling  —  I  have  it  myself. 

Unfortunately,  prevarication  has  this  drawback:  that, 
if  ever  the  truth  comes  to  light,  the  prevaricator  is  in 
just  the  same  case  as  if  he  had  lied  to  the  most  shame- 
less extent,  and  for  a  man  to  point  out  that  the  words 
he  used  contained  no  absolute  falsehood  will  seldom 
restore  confidence. 

I  might,  of  course,  still  tell  the  colonel  of  my  misfor- 
tune, and  leave  him  to  infer  that  it  had  hai)pened  after 
our  interview;  but  the  poodle  was  fast  becoming  cold 
and  stiff,  and  they  would  most  prol)ably  suspect  the 
real  time  of  the  occurrence. 

And  then  Lilian  would  hear  that  T  had  told  a  string 
of  falsehoods  to  her  uncle  over  the  dead  body  of  their 
idolized  Bingo  —  an  act,  no  doubt,  of  abominable  dese- 
cration, of  unspeakable  profanity,  in  her  eyes. 


236  PLOT 

If  it  would  have  been  difficult  before  to  prevail  on  her 
to  accept  a  blood-stained  hand,  it  would  be  impossible 
after  that.  No,  I  had  burned  my  ships,  I  was  cut  off  for 
ever  from  the  straightforward  course;  that  one  moment 
of  indecision  had  decided  my  conduct  in  spite  of  me;  I 
must  go  on  with  it  now,  and  keep  up  the  deception  at 
all  hazards.  / 

It  was  bitter.  I  had  always  tried  to  preserve  as  many 
of  the  moral  principles  which  had  been  instilled  into  me 
as  can  be  conveniently  retained  in  this  grasping  world, 
and  it  had  been  my  pride  that,  roughly  speaking,  I  had 
never  been  guilty  of  an  unmistakable  falsehood. 

But  henceforth,  if  I  meant  to  win  Lilian,  that  boast 
must  be  relinquished  for  ever.  I  should  have  to  lie  now 
with  all  my  might,  without  limit  or  scruple,  to  dissemble 
incessantly,  and  "wear  a  mask,"  as  the  poet  Bunn  beau- 
tifully expressed  it  long  ago,  "over  my  hollow  heart." 
I  felt  all  this  keenly;  I  did  not  think  it  was  right,  but 
what  was  I  to  do?  v. 

After  thinking  all  this  out  very  carefully,  I  decided 
that  my  only  course  was  to  bury  the  poor  animal  where 
he  fell,  and  say  nothing  about  it.  With  some  vague  idea 
of  precaution,  I  first  took  off  the  silver  collar  he  wore, 
and  then  hastily  interred  him  with  a  garden-trowel,  and 
succeeded  in  removing  all  traces  of  the  disaster. 

I  fancy  I  felt  a  certain  relief  in  the  knowledge  that 
there  would  now  be  no  necessity  to  tell  my  pitiful  story 
and  risk  the  loss  of  my  neighbors'  esteem. 

By  and  by,  I  thought,  I  would  plant  a  rose-tree  over 
his  remains,  and  some  day,  as  Lilian  and  I,  in  the  noon- 
tide of  our  domestic  bliss,  stood  before  it  admiring  its 
creamy  luxuriance,  I  might  (perhaps)  find  courage  to 
confess  that  the  tree  owed  some  of  that  luxuriance  to  the 
long-lost  Bingo. 


THE  BLACK  POODLE  237 

There  was  a  touch  of  poetry  in  this  idea  that  lightened 
my  gloom  for  the  moment. 

I  need  scarcely  say  that  I  did  not  go  round  to  Shutur- 
garden  that  evening.  I  was  not  hardened  enough  for 
that  yet;  my  manner  might  betray  me,  and  so  I  very 
prudently  stayed  at  home. 

B^t  ihnt  ni^rht-caA^-.-skep  was  hrolcen  hy  fri^litfiil 
dieain^r  I  was  perpetually  trying  to  bury  a  great,  gaunt 
poodle,  which  would  persist  in  rising  up  through  the 
damp  mould  as  fast  as  I  covered  him  up.  .  .  ,  Lilian  and 
I  were  engaged,  and  we  were  in  church  together  on 
Sunday,  and  the  poodle,  resisting  all  attempts  to  eject 
him,  forbade  our  banns  with  sepulchral  barks.  ...  It 
was  our  wedding-day,  and  at  the  critical  moment  the 
poodle  leaped  between  us  and  swallowed  the  ring.  .  .  . 
Or  we  were  at  the  wedding-breakfast,  and  Bingo,  a 
grisly  black  skeleton  with  flaming  eyes,  sat  on  the  cake 
and  would  not  allow  Lilian  to  cut  it.  Even  the  rose-tree 
fancy  was  reproduced  in  a  distorted  form  —  the  tree 
grew,  and  every  blossom  contained  a  miniature  Bingo, 
which  barked;  and  as  I  woke  I  was  desperately^  trying  to 
persuade  the  colonel  that  they  were  ordinary  dog-roses. 

I  went  up  to  the  office  next  day  with  my  gloomy 
secret  gnawing  my  bosom,  and,  whatever  I  did,  the  spec- 
ter of  the  murdered  poodle  rose  before  me.  For  two  days 
after  that  I  dared  not  go  near  the  Curries,  until  at  last 
one  evening  after  dinner  I  forced  myself  to  call,  feeling 
that  it  was  really  not  safe  to  keep  away  any  longer. 

My  conscience  smote  me  as  I  went  in.  I  put  on  an 
unconscious,  easy  manner,  which  was  such  a  dismal 
failure  that  it  was  lucky  for  me  that  they  were  too  much 
engrossed  to  notice  it.  . 

I  never  before  saw  a  family  so  stricken  down  by  a 
domestic  misfortune  as  the  group  I  found  in  the  drawing- 


238  PLOT 

room,  making  a  dejected  pretense  of  reading  or  working. 
We  talked  at  first  —  and  hollow  talk  it  was  —  on  indif- 
ferent subjects,  till  I  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  plunged 
boldly  into  danger. 

"I  don't  see  the  dog,"  I  began.  "I  suppose  you  — 
you  found  him  all  right  the  other  evening,  colonel.?" 
I  wondered,  as  I  spoke,  whether  they  would  not  notice 
the  break  of  my  voice,  but  they  did  not. 

"Why,  the  fact  is,"  said  the  colonel,  heavily,  gnawing 
his  gray  mustache,  "we've  not  heard  anything  of  him 
since;  he's  —  he's  run  off!" 

"Gone,  Mr.  Weatherhead;  gone  without  a  word!" 
said  Mrs.  Currie,  plaintively,  as  if  she  thought  the  dog 
might  at  least  have  left  an  address. 

"  I  would  n't  have  believed  it  of  him,"  said  the  colonel ; 
"it  has  completely  knocked  me  over.  Have  n't  been  so 
cut  up  for  years  —  the  ungrateful  rascal ! " 

"O  uncle!"  pleaded  Lilian,  "don't  talk  like  that; 
perhaps  Bingo  could  n't  help  it  —  perhaps  some  one 
has  s-s-shot  him!" 

"Shot!"  cried  the  colonel,  angrily.  "By  heaven!  if 
I  thought  there  was  a  villain  on  earth  capable  of  shoot- 
ing that  poor,  inoffensive  dog,  I  'd  —  Why  should  they 
shoot  him,  Lilian?  Tell  me  that!  I  —  I  hope  you  won't 
let  me  hear  you  talk  like  that  again.  You  don't  think 
he's  shot,  eh,  Weatherhead?" 

I  said  —  Heaven  forgive  me!  —  that  I  thought  it 
highly  improbalile. 

"He's  not  dead!"  cried  Mrs.  Currie.  "If  he  were 
dead  I  should  know  it  somehow  —  I  'm  sure  I  should ! 
But  I'm  certain  he's  alive.  Only  last  night  I  had  such 
a  beautiful  dream  about  him.  I  thought  he  came  back 
to  us,  Mr.  Weatherhead,  driving  up  in  a  hansom-cab, 
and  he  was  just  the  same  as  ever  —  only  h*^  wore  blue 


THE  BLACK  POODLE  239 

spectacles,  and  the  shaved  part  of  him  was  painted  a 
bright  red.  And  I  woke  uj)  with  the  joy  —  so,  you  know, 
it's  sure  to  come  true!" 

It  will  be  easily  understood  what  torture  conversations 
like  these  were  to  me,  and  how  I  hated  myself  as  I  sym- 
pathized and  spoke  encouraging  words  concerning  the 
dog's  recover^",  when  I  knew  all  the  time  he  was  lying  hid 
under  my  garden  mould.  But  I  took  it  as  a  part  of  my 
punishment,  and  bore  it  all  uncomplainingly;  practice 
even  made  me  an  adept  in  the  art  of  consolation  —  I 
believe  I  really  was  a  great  comfort  to  them. 

I  had  hoped  that  they  would  soon  get  over  the  first 
bitterness  of  their  loss,  and  that  Bingo  would  be  first 
replaced  and  then  forgotten  in  the  usual  way ;  but  there 
seemed  no  signs  of  this  coming  to  pass. 

The  poor  colonel  was  too  plainly  fretting  himself  ill 
about  it;  he  went  pottering  about  forlornly,  advertising, 
searching,  and  seeing  people,  but  all,  of  course,  to  no 
purpose;  and  it  told  upon  him.  He  was  more  like  a  man 
whose  only  son  and  heir  had  been  stolen  than  an  Anglo- 
Indian  officer  who  had  lost  a  poodle.  I  had  to  affect  the 
liveliest  interest  in  all  his  inquiries  and  expeditions,  and 
to  listen  to  and  echo  the  most  extravagant  eulogies  of 
the  departed ;  and  the  wear  and  tear  of  so  much  duplic- 
ity made  me  at  last  almost  as  ill  as  the  colonel  himself. 

I  could  not  help  seeing  that  Lilian  was  not  nearly  so 
much  impressed  by  my  elaborate  concern  as  her  relatives, 
and  sometimes  I  detected  an  incredulous  look  in  her 
frank  brown  eyes  that  made  me  very  uneasy.  Little  by 
little,  a  rift  widened  between  us,  until  at  last  in  despair 
I  determined  to  know  the  worst  before  the  time  came 
when  it  would  be  hopeless  to  speak  at  all.  I  chose  a 
Sunday  evening  as  we  were  walking  across  the  green 
from  church  in  the  golden  dusk,  and  then  I  ventured  to 


240  PLOT 

speak  to  her  of  my  love.  She  heard  me  to  the  end, 
and  was  evidently  very  much  agitated.  At  last  she 
murmured  tliat  it  could  not  be,  unless  —  no,  it  never 
could  be  now. 

"Unless  what?"  I  asked.  "Lilian  —  Miss  Rose- 
blade,  something  has  come  between  us  lately;  you  will 
tell  me  what  that  something  is,  won't  you?" 

"Do  you  want  to  know  really?"  she  said,  looking  up 
at  me  through  her  tears.  "Then  I'll  tell  you;  it  —  it's 
Bingo!" 

I  started  back  overwhelmed.  Did  she  know  all?  If 
not,  how  much  did  she  suspect?  I  must  find  out  that  at 
once!  "What  about  Bingo?"  I  managed  to  pronounce, 
with  a  dry  tongue. 

"You  never  1-loved  him  when  he  was  here,"  she 
sobbed;  "you  know  j'^ou  did  n't!" 

I  was  relieved  to  find  it  was  no  worse  than  this. 

"No,"  I  said,  candidly;  "I  did  not  love  Bingo.  Bingo 
did  n't  love  me,  Lilian;  he  was  alway  looking  out  for  a 
chance  of  nipping  me  somewhere.  Surely  you  won't 
quarrel  with  me  for  that ! " 

"Not  for  that,"  she  said;  "only,  why  do  you  pretend 
to  be  so  fond  of  him  now,  and  so  anxious  to  get  him  back 
again?  Uncle  John  believes  you,  but  I  don't.  I  can  see 
quite  well  that  you  would  n't  be  glad  to  find  him.  You 
could  find  him  easily  if  you  wanted  to!" 

"What  do  you  mean,  Lilian?"  I  said,  hoarsely. 
"IIow  could  I  find  him?"  Again  I  feared  the  worst. 

"You're  in  a  government  office,"  cried  Lilian,  "and 
if  you  only  chose,  you  could  easily  g-get  g-government 
to  find  Bingo !  What 's  the  use  of  government  if  it  can't 
do  that?  Mr.  Travers  would  have  found  him  long  ago 
if  I  'd  asked  him ! " 

Lilian  had  never  been  so  childishly  unreasonable  as 


THE  BLACK  POODLE  241 

this  before,  and  yet  I  loved  her  more  madly  than  ever; 
but  I  did  not  like  this  allusion  to  Travers.  a  rising 
barrister,  who  lived  with  his  sister  in  a  i)retty  cottage 
near  the  station,  and  had  shown  symptoms  of  being  at- 
tracted by  Lilian. 

He  was  away  on  circuit  just  then,  luckily;  but,  at 
least,  even  he  would  have  found  it  a  hard  task  to  find 
Bingo  —  there  was  comfort  in  that. 

"You  know  that  isn't  just,  Lihan,"  I  observed;  "but 
only  tell  me  what  you  want  me  to  do." 

"  Bub  —  bub  —  bring  back  Bingo  I "  she  said. 

"Bring  back  Bingo!"  I  cried,  in  horror.  "But  suppose 
I  can't  —  suppose  he's  out  of  the  country,  or  —  dead, 
what  then,  Lilian.'*" 

"I  can't  help  it,"  she  said,  "but  I  don't  believe  he 
is  out  of  the  country  or  dead.  And  while  I  see  you  pre- 
tending to  uncle  that  you  cared  awfully  about  him,  and 
going  on  doing  nothing  at  all,  it  makes  me  think  you're 
not  quite  —  quite  sincere !  And  I  could  n't  possibly 
marry  any  one  while  I  thought  that  of  him.  And  I  shall 
always  have  that  feeling  unless  you  find  Bingo!" 

It  was  of  no  use  to  argue  with  her;  I  knew  Lilian  by 
that  time.  With  her  pretty,  caressing  manner  she  united 
a  latent  obstinacy  which  it  was  hopeless  to  attempt  to 
shake.  I  feared,  too,  that  she  was  not  quite  certain  as 
yet  whether  she  cared  for  me  or  not,  and  that  this  con- 
dition of  hers  was  an  expedient  to  gain  time. 

I  left  her  with  a  hea\'y  heart.  Unless  I  proved  my 
worth  by  bringing  back  Bingo  within  a  very"  short  time 
Travers  would  probably  have  everything  his  own  way. 
And  Bingo  was  dead ! 

However,  I  took  heart.  I  thought  that  perhaps  if 
I  could  succeed  by  my  earnest  efforts  in  persuading 
Lilian  that  I  really  was  doing  all  in  my  power  to  recover 


242  PLOT 

the  poodle,  she  might  relent  in  time,  and  dispense  with 
his  actual  production. 

So,  partly  with  this  object,  and  partly  to  appease  the 
remorse  which  now  revived  and  stung  me  deeper  than 
before,  I  undertook  long  and  weary  pilgrimages  after 
office  hours.  I  spent  many  pounds  in  advertisments;  I 
interviewed  dogs  of  every  size,  color,  and  breed,  and  of 
course  I  took  care  to  keep  Lilian  informed  of  each  suc- 
cessive failure.  But  still  her  heart  was  not  touched; 
she  was  firm.  If  I  went  on  like  that,  she  told  me,  I  was 
certain  to  find  Bingo  one  day;  then,  but  not  before, 
would  her  doubts  be  set  at  rest. 

I  was  walking  one  day  through  the  somewhat  squalid 
district  which  lies  between  Bow  Street  and  High  Hol- 
born,  when  I  saw,  in  a  small  theatrical  costumer's  win- 
dow, a  hand-bill  stating  that  a  black  poodle  had  "fol- 
lowed a  gentleman  "  on  a  certain  date,  and  if  not  claimed 
and  the  finder  remunerated  before  a  stated  time  would 
be  sold  to  pay  expenses. 

I  went  in  and  got  a  copy  of  the  bill  to  show  Lilian, 
and,  although  by  that  time  I  scarcely  dared  to  look  a 
poodle  in  the  face,  I  thought  I  would  go  to  the  address 
given  and  see  the  animal,  simply  to  be  able  to  tell  Lilian 
that  I  had  done  so. 

The  gentleman  whom  the  dog  had  very  unaccount- 
ably followed  was  a  certain  Mr.  William  Blagg,  who  kept 
a  little  shop  near  Endell  Street,  and  called  himself  a 
bird-fancier,  though  I  should  scarcely  have  credited  him 
with  the  necessary  imagination.  He  was  an  evil-browed 
ruffian  in  a  fur  cap,  with  a  broad  broken  nose  and  little 
shifty  red  eyes;  and  after  I  had  told  him  what  I  wanted 
he  took  me  through  a  horrible  little  den,  stacked  with 
piles  of  wooden,  wire,  and  wicker  prisons,  each  quivering 
with  restless,  twittering  life,  and  then  out  into  a  back 


THE   BLACK  POODLE  243 

yard,  in  which  were  two  or  three  rotten  old  kennels  and 
tubs.  "That  there's  him,"  he  said,  jerking  his  thumb 
to  the  farthest  tub;  "follered  me  all  the  way  'ome  from 
Kinsington  Gardings,  he  did.    Kim  out,  will  yer?" 

And  out  of  the  tub  there  crawled  slowly,  with  a 
snuffling  whimper  and  a  rattling  of  its  chain,  the  iden- 
tical dog  I  had  slain  a  few  evenings  before! 

At  least,  so  I  thought  for  a  moment,  and  felt  as  if  I  had 
seen  a  specter;  the  resemblance  was  so  exact  —  in  size, 
in  every  detail,  even  to  the  little  clumps  of  hair  about  the 
hind  parts,  even  to  the  lop  of  half  an  ear,  this  dog  might 
have  been  the  Doppelgdnger  of  the  deceased  Bingo.  I 
suppose,  after  all,  one  black  poodle  is  very  like  any  other 
black  poodle  of  the  same  size,  but  the  likeness  startled  me. 

I  think  it  was  then  that  the  idea  occurred  to  me  that 
here  was  a  miraculous  chance  of  securing  the  sweetest 
girl  in  the  whole  workl,  and  at  the  same  time  atoning  for 
my  wrong  by  bringing  back  gladness  with  me  to  Shutur- 
garden.  It  only  needed  a  little  boldness;  one  last  decep- 
tion, and  I  could  embrace  truthfulness  once  more. 

Almost  unconsciously,  when  my  guide  turned  round 
and  asked,  "Is  that  there  dawg  yourn?"  I  said  hur- 
riedly, "Yes,  yes;  that's  the  dog  I  want;  that  —  that's 
Bingo!" 

"He  don't  seem  to  be  a-puttin*  of  'isself  out  about 
seein*  you  again,"  observed  Mr.  Blagg,  as  the  poodle 
studied  me  with  a  calm  interest. 

"Oh,  he's  not  exactly  my  dog,  you  see,"  I  said;  "he 
belongs  to  a  friend  of  mine!" 

He  gave  me  a  quick,  furtive  glance.  "Then  maybe 
you're  mistook  about  him,"  he  said,  "and  I  can't  run 
no  risks.  I  was  a-goin'  down  in  the  country  this  'ere 
werry  evenin'  to  see  a  party  as  lives  at  Wistaria  Willa; 
he 's  been  a-hadwertisin'  about  a  black  poodle,  he  has ! " 


244  PLOT 

"But  look  here,"  I  said;  "that's  me." 

He  gave  me  a  curious  leer.  "No  offense,  you  know, 
guv'nor,"  he  said,  "but  I  should  wish  for  some  evidence 
as  to  that  afore  I  part  with  a  vallyable  dawg  like  this 
'ere!" 

"Well,"  I  said,  "here's  one  of  my  cards;  will  that  do 
for  you?" 

He  took  it  and  spelled  it  out  with  a  pretense  of  great 
caution;  but  I  saw  well  enough  that  the  old  scoundrel 
suspected  that  if  I  had  lost  a  dog  at  all  it  was  not  this 
particular  dog.  "Ah,"  he  said,  as  he  put  it  in  his  pocket, 
"if  I  part  with  him  to  you  I  must  be  cleared  of  all  risks. 
I  can't  afford  to  get  into  trouble  about  no  mistakes. 
Unless  you  likes  to  leave  him  for  a  day  or  two  you  must 
pay  accordin',  you  see." 

I  wanted  to  get  the  hateful  business  over  as  soon  as 
possible.  I  did  not  care  what  I  paid  —  Lilian  was  worth 
all  the  expense!  I  said  I  had  no  doubt  myself  as  to  the 
real  ownership  of  the  animal,  but  I  would  give  him  any 
sum  in  reason,  and  would  remove  the  dog  at  once. 

And  so  we  settled  it.  I  paid  him  an  extortionate  sum, 
and  came  away  with  a  duplicate  poodle,  a  canine  counter- 
feit, which  I  hoped  to  pass  off  at  Shuturgarden  as  the 
long-lost  Bingo. 

I  know  it  was  wrong,  —  it  even  came  unpleasantly  near 
dog-stealing,  —  but  I  was  a  desperate  man.  I  saw  Lilian 
gradually  slipping  away  from  me,  I  knew  that  nothing 
short  of  this  could  ever  recall  her,  I  was  sorely  tempted, 
I  had  gone  far  on  the  same  road  already;  it  was  the  old 
story  of  being  hung  for  a  sheep.   And  so  I  fell. 

Surely  some  who  read  this  will  be  generous  enough 
to  consider  the  peculiar  state  of  the  case,  and  mingle  a 
little  pity  with  their  contempt. 


THE  BLACK  POODLE  245 

I  was  dining  in  town  that  evening,  and  took  my  pur- 
chase home  by  a  late  train;  his  demeanor  was  grave  and 
intensely  respectable;  he  was  not  the  animal  to  commit 
himself  by  any  flagrant  indiscretion;  he  was  gentle  and 
tractable,  too,  and  in  all  respects  an  agreeable  contrast 
in  character  to  the  original.  Still,  it  may  have  been  the 
after-dinner  workings  of  conscience,  but  I  could  not 
help  fancying  that  I  saw  a  certain  look  in  the  creature's 
eyes,  as  if  he  were  aware  that  he  was  required  to  con- 
nive at  a  fraud,  and  rather  resented  it. 

If  he  would  only  be  good  enough  to  back  me  up !  For- 
tunately, however,  he  was  such  a  perfect  facsimile  of 
the  outward  Bingo  that  the  risk  of  detection  was  really 
inconsiderable. 

When  I  got  him  home  I  put  Bingo's  silver  collar  round 
his  neck,  congratulating  myself  on  my  forethought  in 
preserving  it,  and  took  him  in  to  see  my  mother.  She 
accepted  him  as  what  he  seemed  without  the  slightest 
misgiving;  but  this,  though  it  encouraged  me  to  go  on, 
was  not  decisive  —  the  spurious  poodle  would  have  to 
encounter  the  scrutiny  of  those  who  knew  every  tuft  on 
the  genuine  animal's  body! 

Nothing  would  have  induced  me  to  undergo  such  an 
ordeal  as  that  of  personally  restoring  him  to  the  Curries. 
We  gave  him  supper,  and  tied  him  up  on  the  lawn,  where 
he  howled  dolefully  all  night  and  buried  bones. 

The  next  morning  I  wrote  a  note  to  Mrs.  Currie,  ex- 
pressing my  pleasure  at  being  able  to  restore  the  lost 
one,  and  another  to  Lilian,  containing  only  the  words, 
"Will  you  believe  now  that  1  am  sincere.'"  Then  I  tied 
both  round  the  poodle's  neck,  and  droi)ped  him  over  the 
wall  into  the  colonel's  garden  just  before  I  started  to 
catch  my  train  to  town. 


246  PLOT 

I  had  an  anxious  walk  home  from  the  station  that 
evening;  I  went  round  by  the  longer  way,  trembling 
the  whole  time  lest  I  should  meet  any  of  the  Currie 
household,  to  which  I  felt  myself  entirely  unequal 
just  then.  I  could  not  rest  until  I  knew  whether  my 
fraud  had  succeeded,  or  if  the  poodle  to  which  I  had 
entrusted  my  fate  had  basely  betrayed  me;  but  my 
suspense  was  happily  ended  as  soon  as  I  entered  my 
mother's  room.  "You  can't  think  how  delighted  those 
poor  Curries  were  to  see  Bingo  again,"  she  said  at  once; 
"and  they  said  such  charming  things  about  you,  Algy, 
—  Lilian  particularly:  quite  affected  she  seemed,  poor 
child !  And  they  wanted  you  to  go  round  and  dine  there 
and  be  thanked  to-night,  but  at  last  I  persuaded  them 
to  come  to  us  instead.  And  they  're  going  to  bring  the 
dog  to  make  friends.  Oh,  and  I  met  Frank  Travers;  he's 
back  from  circuit  again  now,  so  I  asked  him  in,  too,  to 
meet  them!" 

I  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  I  had  played  a  desper- 
ate game,  but  I  had  won!  I  could  have  wished,  to  be 
sure,  that  my  mother  had  not  thought  of  bringing  in 
Travers  on  that  of  all  evenings,  but  I  hoped  that  I 
could  defy  him  after  this. 

The  colonel  and  his  people  were  the  first  to  arrive, 
he  and  his  wife  being  so  effusively  grateful  that  they 
made  me  very  uncomfortable  indeed;  Lilian  met  me  with 
downcast  eyes  and  the  faintest  possible  blush,  but  she 
said  nothing  just  then.  Five  minutes  afterward,  when 
she  and  I  were  alone  together  in  the  conservatory, 
where  I  had  brought  her  on  pretense  of  showing  a  new 
begonia,  she  laid  her  hand  on  my  sleeve  and  whispered, 
almost  shyly,  "  Mr.  Weatherhead  —  Algernon !  Can  you 
ever  forgive  me  for  being  so  cruel  and  unjust  to  you?" 
And  I  replied  that,  upon  the  whole,  I  could. 


THE  BLACK  POODLE  247 

We  were  not  in  that  conservator^'  long,  but  before 
we  left  it  beautiful  Lilian  Rosel>lade  had  consented 
to  make  my  life  happy.  When  we  reentered  the  draw- 
ing-room we  found  Frank  Travers,  who  had  been  told 
the  story  of  the  recovery;  and  I  observed  his  jaw  fall 
as  he  glanced  at  our  faces,  and  noted  the  triumphant 
smile  which  I  have  no  doubt  mine  wore,  and  the  tender, 
dreamy  look  in  Lilian's  soft  eyes.  Poor  Travers!  I  was 
sorry  for  him,  although  I  was  not  fond  of  him.  Travers 
was  a  good  type  of  the  rising  young  common-law  bar- 
rister, tall,  not  bad-looking,  with  keen  dark  eyes,  black 
whiskers,  and  the  mobile  forensic  mouth  which  can  ex- 
press every  shade  of  feeling,  from  deferential  assent  to 
cynical  incredulity ;  possessed,  too,  of  an  endless  flow  of 
conversation  that  was  decidedly  agreeable,  if  a  trifle 
too  laboriously  so,  he  had  been  a  dangerous  rival.  But 
all  that  was  over  now;  he  saw  it  himself  at  once,  and  dur- 
ing dinner  sank  into  dismal  silence,  gazing  pathetically 
at  Lilian,  and  sighing  almost  obtrusively  between  the 
courses.  His  stream  of  small  talk  seemed  to  have  been 
cut  off  at  the  main. 

"You've  done  a  kind  thing,  Weatherhead,"  said  the 
colonel.  "I  can't  tell  you  all  that  dog  is  to  me,  and  how 
I  missed  the  poor  beast.  I  'd  quite  given  up  all  hope  of 
ever  seeing  him  again,  and  all  the  time  there  was  Weath- 
erhead, Mr.  Travers,  quietly  searching  all  London  till  he 
found  him!  I  shan't  forget  it.  It  shows  a  really  kind 
feeling," 

I  saw  by  Travers's  face  that  he  was  telling  himself 
he  would  have  found  fifty  Bingos  in  half  the  time  —  if 
he  had  only  thought  of  it;  he  smiled  a  melancholy  assent 
to  all  the  colonel  said,  and  then  began  to  study  me  with 
an  obviously  depreciatory  air. 

"You  can't  think,"  I  heard  Mrs.  Curric.  telling  my 


248  PLOT 

mother,  "how  really  touching  it  was  to  see  poor  dear 
Bingo's  emotion  at  seeing  all  the  old  familiar  objects 
again!  He  went  up  and  sniffed  at  them  all  in  turn,  quite 
plainly  recognizing  everything.  And  he  was  quite  put 
out  to  find  that  we  had  moved  his  favorite  ottoman 
out  of  the  drawing-room.  But  he  is  so  penitent,  too,  and 
so  ashamed  of  having  run  away;  he  hardly  dares  to  come 
when  John  calls  him,  and  he  kept  under  a  chair  in  the 
hall  all  the  morning;  he  would  n't  come  in  here,  either, 
so  we  had  to  leave  him  in  your  garden." 

"He's  been  sadly  out  of  spirits  all  day,"  said  Lilian; 
"he  has  n't  bitten  one  of  the  tradespeople." 

"Oh,  he's  all  right,  the  rascal!"  said  the  colonel, 
cheerily.  "He'll  be  after  the  cats  again  as  well  as  ever 
in  a  day  or  two." 

"Ah,  those  cats!"   said  my  poor   innocent  mother. 
/-   "Algy,  you  haven't  tried  the  air-gun  on  them  again 
lately,  have  you?  They're  worse  than  ever." 

I  troubled  the  colonel  to  pass  the  claret.  Travers 
laughed  for  the  first  time.  "That's  a  good  idea,"  he 
said,  in  that  carrying  "bar-mess"  voice  of  his;  "an 
air-gun  for  cats,  ha,  ha!  Make  good  bags,  eh.  Weather- 
head.^"  I  said  that  I  did,  very  good  bags,  and  felt  I  was 
getting  painfully  red  in  the  face. 
\  "Oh,  Algy  is  an  excellent  shot  —  quite  a  sportsman," 
said  my  mother.  "I  remember,  oh,  long  ago,  when  we 
lived  at  Hammersmith,  he  had  a  pistol,  and  he  used  to 
strew  crumbs  in  the  garden  for  the  sparrows,  and  shoot 
at  them  out  of  the  pantry  window;  he  frequently  hit 
one." 

"Well,"  said  the  colonel,  not  much  impressed  by 
these  sporting  reminiscences,  "don't  go  rolling  over  our 
Bingo  by  mistake,  you  know,  Weatherhead,  my  boy. 
Not  but   what  you've  a  sort  of  right  after  this  — 


THE  BLACK  POODLE  249 

only  don't.    I  would  n't  go  through  it  all  twice  for  any- 
thing." 

"If  you  really  won't  take  any  more  wine,"  I  said, 
hurriedly,  addressing  the  colonel  and  Travers,  "sup- 
pose we  all  go  out  and  have  our  coffee  on  the  lawn?  It 
—  it  will  be  cooler  there."  For  it  was  getting  very  hot 
indoors,  I  thought. 

I  left  Travers  to  amuse  the  ladies  —  he  could  do  no 
more  harm  now;  and,  taking  the  colonel  aside,  I  seized 
the  opportunity,  as  we  strolled  up  and  down  the  garden 
path,  to  ask  his  consent  to  Lilian's  engagement  to  me. 
He  gave  it  cordially.  "There's  not  a  man  in  England," 
he  said,  "  that  I  'd  sooner  see  her  married  to  after  to-day. 
You  're  a  quiet,  steady  young  fellow,  and  you  've  a  good 
kind  heart.  As  for  the  money,  that's  neither  here  nor 
there;  Lilian  won't  come  to  you  without  a  penny,  you 
know.  But,  really,  my  boy,  you  can  hardly  believe  what 
it  is  to  my  poor  wife  and  me  to  see  that  dog.  Why, 
bless  ray  soul,  look  at  him  now!  What's  the  matter 
with  him,  eh.'*" 

To  my  unutterable  horror,  I  saw  that  that  miserable 
poodle,  after  begging  unnoticed  at  the  tea-table  for  some 
time,  had  retired  to  an  open  space  before  it,  where  he 
was  now  industriously  standing  on  his  head. 

We  gathered  round  and  examined  the  animal  curiously, 
as  he  continued  to  balance  himself  gravely  in  his  abnor- 
mal position.  "Good gracious,  John,"  cried  Mrs.  Currie, 
"I  never  saw  Bingo  do  such  a  thing  before  in  his  life!" 

"Very  odd,"  said  the  colonel,  putting  up  his  glasses; 
"never  learned  that  from  me." 

"I  tell  you  what  I  fancy  it  is,"  I  suggested,  wildly. 
"You  see,  he  was  always  a  sensitive,  excitable  animal,  " 
and  perhaps  the  —  the  sudden  joy  of  his  return  has  gone 
to  his  head  —  upset  him,  you  know." 


250  PLOT 

They  seemed  disposed  to  accept  this  solution,  and, 
indeed,  I  believe  they  would  have  credited  Bingo  with 
every  conceivable  degree  of  sensibility;  but  I  felt  my- 
self that  if  this  unhappy  animal  had  many  more  of  these 
accomplishments  I  was  undone,  for  the  original  Bingo 
had  never  been  a  dog  of  parts. 

.  "It's  very  odd,"  said  Travers,  reflectively,  as  the  dog 
recovered  his  proper  level,  "but  I  always  thought  that 
it  was  half  the  right  ear  that  Bingo  had  lost." 

"So  it  is,  is  n't  it?  "said  the  colonel.  "Left,  eh?  Well, 
I  thought  myself  it  was  the  right." 

My  heart  almost  stopped  with  terror;  I  had  altogether 
forgotten  that.  I  hastened  to  set  the  point  at  rest.  "Oh, 
it  was  the  left,"  I  said,  positively;  "I  know  it  because  I 
remember  so  particularly  thinking  how  odd  it  was  that 
it  should  be  the  left  ear,  and  not  the  right !  "  I  told  my- 
self this  should  be  positively  my  last  lie. 

"Why  odd?"  asked  Frank  Travers,  with  his  most 
offensive  Socratic  manner. 

"My  dear  fellow,  I  can't  tell  you,"  I  said,  impatiently; 
"everything  seems  odd  when  you  come  to  think  at  all 
about  it." 

"Algernon,"  said  Lilian,  later  on,  "will  you  tell  Aunt 
Mary  and  Mr.  Travers  and  —  and  me  how  it  was  you 
came  to  find  Bingo?  Mr.  Travers  is  quite  anxious  to 
hear  all  about  it." 

I  could  not  very  well  refuse;  I  sat  down  and  told  the 
story,  all  my  own  way.  I  painted  Blagg  perhaps  rather 
bigger  and  blacker  than  life,  and  described  an  exciting 
scene,  in  which  I  recognized  Bingo  by  his  collar  in  the 
streets,  and  claimed  and  bore  him  off  then  and  there  in 
spite  of  all  opposition. 

I  had  the  inexpressible  pleasure  of  seeing  Travers 
grinding  his  teeth  with  envy  as  I  went  on,  and  feeling 


THE  BLACK  POODLE  251 

Lilian's  soft,  slender  hand  glide  silently  into  mine  as  I 
told  my  tale  in  the  twilight. 

All  at  once,  just  as  I  reached  the  climax,  we  heard  the 
poodle  barking  furiously  at  the  hedge  which  separated 
my  garden  from  the  road. 

"There's  a  foreign-looking  man  staring  over  the 
hedge,"  said  Lilian;  "Bingo  always  did  hate  foreigners." 

There  certainly  was  a  swarthy  man  there,  and,  though 
I  had  no  reason  for  it  then,  somehow  my  heart  died 
within  me  at  the  sight  of  him. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  sir,"  cried  the  colonel;  "the  dog 
won't  bite  you  —  unless  there's  a  hole  in  the  hedge 
anywhere." 

The  stranger  took  off  his  small  straw  hat  with  a 
sweep.  "Ah,  I  am  not  afraid,"  he  said,  and  his  accent 
proclaimed  him  a  Frenchman;  "he  is  not  enrage  at  me. 
May  I  ask,  is  it  pairmeet  to  speak  viz  Misterre  Vez- 
zered?  " 

I  felt  I  must  deal  with  this  person  alone,  for  I  feared 
the  worst;  and,  asking  them  to  excuse  me,  I  went  to 
the  hedge  and  faced  the  Frenchman  with  the  frightful 
calm  of  despair.  He  was  a  short,  stout  little  man, 
with  blue  cheeks,  sparkling  black  eyes,  and  a  vivacious 
walnut-colored  countenance;  he  wore  a  short  black  al- 
paca coat,  and  a  large  white  cravat,  with  an  jmmcnse 
oyal^alachite  brooch  in  the  center  of  it,  which  I  men- 
tion because  I  found  myself  staring  mechanically  at  it 
during  the  interview. 

"My  name  is  Weatherhead,"  I  began,  with  the  bear- 
ing of  a  detected  pickpocket.  "  Can  I  be  of  any  service 
to  you?" 

"Of  a  great  service,"  he  said,  emphatically;  "you 
can  restore  to  me  ze  poodle  vich  I  see  zere!" 

Nemesis  had  called  at  last  in  the  shape  of  a  rival 


252  PLOT 

claimant.   I  staggered  for  an  instant;  then  I  said,  "Oh, 
I  think  you  are  under  a  mistake;  that  dog  is  not  mine." 

"I  know  it,"  he  said;  "zere  'as  been  leetle  mistake,  so 
if  ze  dog  is  not  to  you,  you  give  him  back  to  me, 
hein?" 

"  I  tell  you,"  I  said,  "  that  poodle  belongs  to  the  gentle- 
man over  there."  And  I  pointed  to  the  colonel,  seeing 
that  it  was  best  now  to  bring  him  into  the  affair  without 
delay. 

"You  are  wrong,"  he  said,  doggedly;  "ze  poodle  is 
my  poodle !  And  I  was  direct  to  you  —  it  is  your  name 
on  ze  carte!"  And  he  presented  me  with  that  fatal  card 
which  I  had  been  foolish  enough  to  give  to  Blagg  as  a 
proof  of  my  identity.  I  saw  it  all  now;  the  old  villain 
had  betrayed  me,  and  to  earn  a  double  reward  had  put 
the  real  o^Mier  on  my  track. 
a^i*v*^'»^  T  At^nirii^A  tr^  poll  tVio  r.r^]Q|^o|  at  once,  and  attempt  to 
t  *^  brazen  it  out  with  the  help  of  his  sincere  belief  in  the 
dog. 

"Eh,  what's  that;  what's  it  all  about.?"  said  the 
colonel,  bustling  up,  followed  at  intervals  by  the  others. 

The  Frenchman  raised  his  hat  again.  "I  do  not  vant 
to  make  a  trouble,"  he  began,  "  but  zere  is  leetle  mistake. 
My  word  of  honor,  sare,  I  see  my  own  poodle  in  your 
garden.  Ven  I  appeal  to  zis  gentilman  to  restore  'im 
he  reffer  me  to  you." 

"You  must  allow  me  to  know  my  own  dog,  sir," 
said  the  colonel.  "  Why,  I  've  had  him  from  a  pup.  Bingo^' 
old  boy,  you  know  your  master,  don't  you?" 

But  the  brute  ignored  him  altogether,  and  began  to 
leap  wildly  at  the  hedge  in  frantic  efforts  to  join  the 
Frenchman.  It  needed  no  Solomon  to  decide  his  owner- 
ship! 

"I  tell  you,  you  'ave  got  ze  wrong  poodle  —  it  is  my 


THE  BLACK  POODLE  25S 

own  dog,  my  Azor!  lie  remember  me  well,  you  see  ?  I 
lose  him,  it  is  three,  four  days.  ...  I  see  a  nottice  zat 
he  is  found,  and  ven  I  go  to  ze  address  zey  tell  me,  'Oh, 
he  is  reclaim,  he  is  gone  viz  a  strangaire  who  has  adver- 
tise.' Zey  show  me  ze  placard;  I  follow  'ere,  and  ven  I 
arrive  I  see  my  poodle  in  ze  garden  before  me!" 

"But  look  here,"  said  the  colonel,  impatiently;  "it's 
all  very  well  to  say  that,  but  how  can  you  prove  it?  I 
give  you  my  word  that  the  dog  belongs  to  me!  You  must 
prove  your  claim,  eh,  Travers.''" 

"Yes,"  said  Travers,  judicially;  "mere  assertion  is 
no  proof;  it's  oath  against  oath  at  present." 

"Attend  an  instant;  your  poodle,  was  he  'ighly  train, 
had  he  some  talents  —  a  dog  viz  tricks,  eh?" 

"No,  he's  not,"  said  the  colonel;  "I  don't  like  to  see 
dogs  taught  to  play  the  fool;  there's  none  of  that  non- 
sense about  him,  sir!" 

"Ah,  remark  him  well,  then.  Azor,  mon  chou,  danse 
done  un  peu!'' 

And,  on  the  foreigner's  whistling  a  lively  air,  that  in- 
fernal poodle  rose  on  his  hind  legs  and  danced  solemnly 
about  half  way  round  the  garden !  We  inside  followed 
his  movements  with  dismay. 

"Why,  dash  it  all!"  cried  the  disgusted  colonel,  "he's 
dancing  along  like  a  d — d  mountebank!  But  it's  my 
Bingo,  for  all  that!" 

"You  are  not  convince?  You  shall  see  more.  Azor, 
id!  Pour  Beesmarck,  Azor!"  (The  poodle  barked  fe- 
rociously.) ''Pour  Gambetia!"  (He  wagged  his  tail  and 
began  to  leap  with  joy.)  "  Meurs  pour  la  patrie!"  And 
the  too  accomplished  animal  rolled  over  as  if  killed  in 
battle! 

"  W^here  could  Bingo  have  picked  up  so  much  French?  " 
cried  Lilian  incredulously. 


254  PLOT 

"Or  so  much  French  history?"  added  that  serpent, 
Travers. 

"Shall  I  command  'im  to  jomp,  or  reverse  'imself?" 
inquired  the  obliging  Frenchman, 

"We've  seen  that,  thank  you,"  said  the  colonel, 
gloomily.  "Upon  my  word,  I  don't  know  what  to  think. 
It  can't  be  that  that's  not  my  Bingo  after  all  —  I'll 
never  believe  it!" 

I  tried  a  last  desperate  stroke.  "  Will  you  come  round 
to  the  front?"  I  said  to  the  Frenchman.  "I'll  let  you 
in,  and  we  can  discuss  the  matter  quietly."  Then,  as  we 
walked  back  together,  I  asked  him  eagerly  what  he 
would  take  to  abandon  his  claims  arid  let  the  colonel 
think  the  poodle  was  his  after  all. 

He  was  furious  —  he  considered  himself  insulted; 
with  great  emotion  he  informed  me  that  the  dog  was 
the  pride  of  his  life  (it  seems  to  be  the  mission  of  black 
poodles  to  serve  as  domestic  comforts  of  this  priceless 
kind!),  that  he  would  not  part  with  him  for  twice  his 
weight  in  gold. 

"Figure,"  he  began,  as  we  joined  the  others,  "zat 
zis  gentilman  'ere  'as  offer  me  money  for  ze  dog!  He 
agrees  zat  it  is  to  me,  you  see?  Ver'  well,  zen,  zere  is  no 
more  to  be  said!" 

"Why,  Weatherhead,  have  you  lost  faith  too,  then?" 
said  the  colonel. 

I  saw  that  it  was  no  good;  all  I  wanted  now  was  to 
get  out  of  it  creditably  and  get  rid  of  the  Frenchman. 
"I'm  sorry  to  say,"  I  replied,  "that  I'm  afraid  I've 
been  deceived  by  the  extraordinary  likeness.  I  don't 
think,  on  reflection,  that  that  is  Bingo!" 

"What  do  you  think,  Travers?"  asked  the  colonel. 

"Well,  since  you  ask  me,"  said  Travers,  with  quite 
unnecessary  dryness,  "I  never  did  think  so." 


THE  BLACK  POODLE  255 

"Nor  I,"  said  the  colonel;  "I  thought  from  the  first 
that  was  never  my  Bingo.  Why,  Bingo  would  make  two 
of  that  beast!" 

And  Lilian  and  her  aunt  both  protested  that  they  had 
had  their  doubts  from  the  first. 

"Zen  you  pairmeet  zat  I  remove  'im?"  said  the 
Frenchman. 

"Certainly,"  said  the  colonel;  and,  after  some  apolo- 
gies on  our  part  for  the  mistake,  he  went  off  in  triunijjh, 
with  the  detestable  poodle  frisking  after  him. 

When  he  had  gone  the  colonel  laid  his  hand  kindly 
on  my  shoulder.  "Don't  look  so  cut  up  about  it,  my 
boy,"  he  said;  "you  did  your  best  —  there  was  a  sort 
of  likeness  to  any  one  who  did  n't  know  Bingo  as  we 
did." 

Just  then  the  Frenchman  again  appeared  at  the 
hedge.  "A  thousand  pardons,"  he  said,  "but  I  find  zis 
upon  my  dog;  it  is  not  to  me.  Suffer  me  to  restore  it 
viz  many  compliments." 

It  was  Bingo's  collar.  Travers  took  it  from  his  hand 
and  brought  it  to  us. 

"This  was  on  the  dog  when  you  stopped  that  fellow, 
did  n't  you  say?"  he  asked  me. 

One  more  lie  —  and  I  was  so  weary  of  falsehood ! 
Y-yes,"  I  said,  reluctantly;  "that  was  so." 

"Very  extraordinary,"  said  Travers;  "that's  the 
wrong  poodle  beyond  a  doubt,  but  when  he's  found 
he's  wearing  the  right  dog's  collar!  Now,  how  do  you 
account  for  that?" 

"My  good  fellow,"  I  said,  impatiently,  "I'm  not  in 
the  witness-box.  I  carit  account  for  it.  It —  it 's  a  mere 
coincidence!" 

"But  look  here,  my  dear  Wcatherhead,"  argued 
Travers  (whether  in  good  faith  or  not  I  never  could 


256  PLOT 

quite  make  out),  "don't  you  see  what  a  tremendously 
important  link  it  is?  Here's  a  dog  who  (as  I  understand 
the  facts)  had  a  silver  collar,  with  his  name  engraved 
on  it,  round  his  neck  at  the  time  he  was  lost.  Here's 
that  identical  collar  turning  up  soon  afterward  round  the 
neck  of  a  totally  different  dog!  We  must  follow  this  up; 
we  must  get  at  the  bottom  of  it  somehow!  With  a  clue 
like  this,  we're  sure  to  find  out  either  the  dog  himself, 
or  what 's  become  of  him !  Just  try  to  recollect  exactly 
what  happened,  there's  a  good  fellow.  This  is  just  the 
sort  of  thing  I  like!" 

It  was  the  sort  of  thing  I  did  not  enjoy  at  all.  "You 
must  excuse  me  to-night,  Travers,"  I  said,  uncomfort- 
ably; "you  see,  just  now  it's  rather  a  sore  subject  for 
me,  and  I'm  not  feeling  very  well!"  I  was  grateful  just 
then  for  a  reassuring  glance  of  pity  and  confidence  from 
Lilian's  sweet  eyes,  which  revived  my  drooping  spirits 
for  the  moment. 

"Yes,  we'll  go  into  it  to-morrow,  Travers,"  said  the 
colonel;  "and  then  —  hullo,  there's  that  confounded 
Frenchman  again!" 

It  was  indeed;  he  came  prancing  back  delicately,  with 
a  malicious  enjoyment  on  his  wrinkled  face.  "Once 
more  I  return  to  apologize,"  he  said.  "My  poodle  'as 
permit  'imself  ze  grave  indiscretion  to  make  a  very  big 
'ole  at  ze  bottom  of  ze  garden ! " 

I  assured  him  that  it  was  of  no  consequence. 

"Perhaps,"  he  replied,  looking  steadily  at  me  through 
his  keen,  half-shut  eyes,  "you  vill  not  say  zat  ven  you 
regard  ze  'ole.  iVnd  you  others,  I  spik  to  you :  somtimes 
von  loses  a  somzing  vich  is  qvite  near  all  ze  time.  It  is 
ver'  droll,  eh?  my  vord,  ha,  ha,  ha!"  And  he  ambled 
off,  with  an  aggressively  fiendish  laugh  that  chilled  my 
blood. 


THE  BLACK  POODLE  257 

"What  the  deuce  did  he  mean  l)y  that,  eh?"  said  the 
colonel,  blankly. 

"Don't  know,"  said  Travers;  "suppose  we  go  and  in- 
spect the  hole?" 

But  before  that  I  had  contrived  to  draw  near  it  my- 
self, in  deadly  fear  lest  the  Frenchman's  last  words  had 
contained  some  innuendo  which  I  had  not  understood. 

It  was  light  enough  still  for  me  to  see  something,  at 
the  unexpected  horror  of  which  I  very  nearly  fainted. 

That  thrice  accursed  poodle  which  I  had  been  insane 
enough  to  attempt  to  foist  upon  the  colonel  must,  it 
seems,  have  buried  his  supper  the  night  before  very  near 
the  spot  in  which  I  had  laid  Bingo,  and  in  his  attempts 
to  exhume  his  bone  had  brought  the  remains  of  my  vic- 
tim to  the  surface! 

There  the  corpse  lay,  on  the  very  top  of  the  excava- 
tions. Time  had  not,  of  course,  improved  its  appearance, 
which  was  ghastly  in  the  extreme,  but  still  plainly  re- 
cognizable by  the  eye  of  affection. 

"It's  a  very  ordinary  hole,"  I  gasped,  putting  my- 
self before  it  and  trying  to  turn  them  back.  "Nothing 
in  it  —  nothing  at  all!" 

"Except  one  Algernon  Weatherhead,  Esq.,  eh?" 
whisi)ered  Travers,  jocosely,  in  my  ear. 

"No;  but,"  persisted  the  colonel,  advancing,  "look 
here!   Has  the  dog  damaged  any  of  your  shrubs?" 

"No,  no!"  I  cried,  piteously;  "quite  the  reverse. 
Let's  all  go  indoors  now;  it's  getting  so  cold!" 

"See,  there  is  a  shrub  or  something  u])ro()tcd,"  said 
the  colonel,  still  coming  nearer  that  fatal  hole.  "Why, 
hullo,  look  there!    What's  that?" 

Lilian,  who  was  by  his  side,  gave  a  slight  scream. 
"Uncle,"  she  cried,  "it  looks  like  —  like  Bingo! " 

The  colonel  turned  suddenly  upou  me.    "Do  you 


258  PLOT 

hear?  "  he  demanded,  in  a  choked  voice.  "You  hear  what 
she  says?   Can't  you  speak  out?   Is  that  our  Bingo?" 

I  gave  it  up  at  last;  I  only  longed  to  be  allowed  to 
crawl  away  under  something!  "Yes,"  I  said,  in  a  dull 
whisper,  as  I  sat  down  heavily  on  a  garden  seat,  "yes 
.  .  .  that's  Bingo  .  .  .  misfortune  .  .  .  shoot  him  .  .  . 
quite  an  accident!" 

There  was  a  terrible  explosion  after  that;  they  saw 
at  last  how  I  had  deceived  them,  and  put  the  very  worst 
construction  upon  everything.  Even  now  I  WTithe  im- 
potently  at  times,  and  my  cheeks  smart  and  tingle  with 
humiliation,  as  I  recall  that  scene  —  the  colonel's  very 
plain  speaking,  Lilian's  passionate  reproaches  and  con- 
tempt, and  her  aunt's  speechless  prostration  of  disap- 
pointment. 

I  made  no  attempt  to  defend  myself;  I  was  not,  per- 
haps, the  complete  villain  they  deemed  me,  but  I  felt 
dully  that  no  doubt  it  all  served  me  perfectly  right. 

Still  I  do  not  think  I  am  under  any  obligation  to  put 
their  remarks  down  in  black  and  white  here. 

Travers  had  vanished  at  the  first  opportunity  — 
whether  out  of  delicacy,  or  the  fear  of  breaking  out  into 
unseasonable  mirth,  I  cannot  say ;  and  shortly  afterward 
the  others  came  to  where  I  sat  silent  with  bowed  head, 
and  bade  me  a  stern  and  final  farewell. 

And  then,  as  the  last  gleam  of  Lilian's  white  dress 
vanished  down  the  garden  path,  I  laid  my  head  down 
on  the  table  among  the  coffee-cups,  and  cried  like  a 
beaten  child. 

I  got  leave  as  soon  as  I  could,  and  went  abroad.  The 
morning  after  my  return  I  noticed,  while  shaving,  that 
there  was  a  small  square  marble  tablet  placed  against  the 
wall  of  the  colonel's  garden.    I  got  my  opera-glass  and 


THE  BLACK  POODLE  259 

read  —  and  pleasant  reading  it  was  —  the  following 
inscription :  — 

IN   AFFECTIONATE   MEMORY 

OF 

BINGO 

SECRETLY   AND   CRUELLY   PUT   TO   DEATH, 

IN   COLD   BLOOD, 

BY   A 

NEIGHBOR   AND   FRIEND. 

JUNE,  1881 

If  this  explanation  of  mine  ever  reaches  my  neigh- 
bors' eyes,  I  humbly  hope  they  will  have  the  humanity 
either  to  take  away  or  tone  down  that  tablet.  They  can- 
not conceive  what  I  suffer  when  curious  visitors  insist, 
as  they  do  every  day,  on  spelling  out  the  words  from 
our  windows,  and  asking  me  countless  questions  about 
them ! 

Sometimes  I  meet  the  Curries  about  the  village,  and 
as  they  pass  me  with  averted  heads  I  feel  myself  growing 
crimson.  Travers  is  almost  always  with  Lilian  now. 
He  has  given  her  a  dog,  —  a  fox-terrier,  —  and  they 
take  ostentatiously  elaborate  precautions  to  keep  it  out 
of  my  garden. 

I  should  like  to  assure  them  here  that  they  need  not 
be  under  any  alarm.   I  have  shot  one  dog. 


THE  THREE   STRANGERS^ 

BY  THOMAS  HARDY 

The  Three  Strangers  is  an  additional  example  of  the  plot  struc- 
ture already  illustrated  in  The  Black  Poodle  —  the  "method  of 
story."  The  narrative  also  approaches  the  type  of  "hoax-plot" 
exemplified  in  Marjorie  Daw,  but  it  is  by  no  means  so  clearly 
tj'pical.  One  does  not  feel  that  the  purpose  of  the  author  is 
to  hoodwink  the  reader:  the  hints  as  to  the  identity  of  at  least 
two  of  the  three  strangers  are  suflBciently  broad  to  dispel 
doubt. 

But  the  ultimate  value  of  the  story  depends  in  considerable 
degree  on  the  descriptive  portions.  Like  all  of  Mr.  Hardy's 
work,  The  Three  Strangers  shows  a  wonderful  power  in  the 
handling  of  nature.  Many  of  his  scenes  are  based  on  actual 
originals,  which  the  traveler  ipay  easily  verify.  Higher  Crow- 
stairs,  for  example,  may  be  found  to-day  on  the  slopes  above 
Cerne  Abbas,  on  a  deserted  coach-road  over  the  heath  to  Dor- 
chester,—  or  "Casterbridge,"  as  it  is  called  in  the  story. 
But  the  vividness  of  the  scenes  as  portrayed  is  not  merely 
a  matter  of  guide-book  exactness,  of  expository  description 
presented  for  the  purposes  of  identification:  the  writer  gives 
actual  life  to  his  pictures  as  a  result  of  his  own  keen  observa- 
tion of  nature  and  his  instinctive  appreciation  of  the  power  of 
language.  Of  the  first,  the  reader  will  find  exemplification  in  the 
opening  paragraphs  descriptive  of  the  heath  and  the  storm. 
And  the  connotativeness,  the  condensed  suggestiveness  of  the 
writer's  diction,  is  constantly  present.  The  following  para- 
graph is  a  good  instance,  and,  if  one  re-reads  it,  one  becomes 
conscious  of  the  new  values  that  are  constantly  making  them- 
selves felt: — 

"But  Elijah  and  the  boy,  in  the  excitement  of  their  position, 
quite  forgot  the  injunction.  Moreover,  Oliver  Giles,  a  man  of 
seventeen,  one  of  the  dancers,  who  was  enamored  of  his 
partner,  a  fair  girl  of  thirty-three  rolling  years,  had  recklessly 

1  From  Wesaex  Tales.   Published  by  Harper  &  Brothera. 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  261 

handed  a  new  crown-piece  to  the  musicians  as  a  hrihc  to  keep 
going  as  long  as  they  had  muscle  and  wind.  Mrs.  Fennel,  seeing 
the  steam  begin  to  generate  on  the  countenances  of  her  guests, 
crossed  over  and  touched  the  fiddler's  elljow  and  i)ut  her  hand 
on  the  serpent's  mouth.  But  they  took  no  notice,  and  fearing 
she  might  lose  her  character  of  genial  hostess  if  she  were  to 
interfere  too  markedly,  she  retired  and  sat  down  heli)less. 
And  so  the  dance  wliizzed  on  with  cumulative  fury,  the  per- 
formers moving  in  their  planet-like  courses,  direct  and  retro- 
grade, from  apogee  to  perigee,  till  the  hand  of  the  well-kicked 
clock  at  the  bottom  of  the  room  had  traveled  over  the  circum- 
ference of  an  hour." 

Among  the  few  features  of  agricultural  England  which 
retain  an  appearance  but  little  modified  by  the  lapse 
of  centuries  may  be  reckoned  the  high,  grassy,  and 
furzy  dowTis,  coombs,  or  ewe-leases,  as  they  are  indiffer- 
ently called,  that  fill  a  large  area  of  certain  counties  in 
the  south  and  southwest.  If  any  mark  of  human  occu- 
pation is  met  with  hereon  it  usually  takes  the  form  of 
the  solitary  cottage  of  some  shei)herd. 

Fifty  years  ago  such  a  lonely  cottage  stood  on  such  a 
down,  and  may  possibly  be  standing  there  now.  In  spite 
of  its  loneliness,  however,  the  spot,  by  actual  measure- 
ment, was  not  more  than  five  miles  from  a  county 
town.  Yet  what  of  that?  Five  miles  of  irregular  upland, 
during  the  long,  inimical  seasons,  with  their  sleets, 
snows,  rains,  and  mists,  afford  withdrawing  space  enough 
to  isolate  a  Timon  or  a  Nebuchadnezzar;  much  less,  in 
fair  weather,  to  j)lease  that  less  repellent  tribe,  the  poets, 
philosophers,  artists,  and  others  who  "conceive  and 
meditate  of  pleasant  things." 

Some  old  earthern  camp  or  barrow,  some  clump  of 
trees,  at  least  some  starved  fragment  of  ancient  hedge, 
is  usually  taken  advantage  of  in  the  erection  of  these 
forlorn  dwellings;  but  in  the  present  case  such  a  kind 


262  PLOT 

of  shelter  had  been  disregarded.  Higher  Crowstairs, 
as  the  house  was  called,  stood  quite  detached  and  rnide- 
fended.  The  only  reason  for  its  precise  situation  seemed 
to  be  the  crossing  of  two  footpaths  at  right  angles  hard 
by,  which  may  have  crossed  there  and  thus  for  a  good 
five  hundred  years.  The  house  was  thus  exposed  to  the 
elements  on  all  sides.  But,  though  the  wind  up  here 
blew  unmistakably  when  it  did  blow,  and  the  rain  hit 
hard  whenever  it  fell,  the  various  weathers  of  the  win- 
ter season  were  not  quite  so  formidable  on  the  coomb 
as  they  were  imagined  to  be  by  dwellers  on  low  ground. 
The  raw  rimes  were  not  so  pernicious  as  in  the  hollows, 
and  the  frosts  were  scarcely  so  severe.  When  the  shep- 
herd and  his  family  who  tenanted  the  house  were  pitied 
for  their  sufferings  from  the  exposure,  they  said  that 
upon  the  whole  they  were  less  inconvenienced  by 
"wuzzes  and  flames"  (hoarses  and  phlegms)  than  when 
they  had  lived  by  the  stream  of  a  snug  neighborint* 
valley. 

The  night  of  March  28,  182-,  was  precisely  one  of  the 
nights  that  were  wont  to  call  forth  these  expressions  o* 
commiseration.  The  level  rainstorm  smote  walls, 
slopes,  and  hedges  like  the  clothyard  shafts  of  Senlac 
and  Crecy.  Such  sheep  and  outdoor  animals  as  had  no 
shelter  stood  with  their  buttocks  to  the  wind,  while  the 
tails  of  little  birds  trying  to  roost  on  some  scraggy  thorn 
were  blown  inside  out  like  umbrellas.  The  gable  end  of 
the  cottage  was  stained  with  wet,  and  the  eavesdrop- 
pings  flapped  against  the  wall.  Yet  never  was  commis- 
eration for  the  shepherd  more  misplaced.  For  that  cheer- 
ful rustic  was  entertaining  a  large  party  in  glorification 
of  the  christening  of  his  second  girl. 

The  guests  had  arrived  before  the  rain  began  to  fall, 
and  they  were  all  now  assembled  in  the  chief  or  living 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  2G3 

room  of  the  dwelling.  A  glance  into  the  apartment  at 
eight  o'clock  on  this  eventful  evening  would  have  re- 
sulted in  the  opinion  that  it  was  as  cozy  and  comfortable 
a  nook  as  could  be  wished  for  in  boisterous  weather. 
The  calling  of  its  inhabitant  was  proclaimed  by  a  num- 
ber of  highly  polished  sheep-crooks  without  stems,  that 
were  hung  ornamentally  over  the  fireplace,  the  curl  of 
each  shining  crook  varying  from  the  antiquated  type 
engraved  in  the  patriarchal  pictures  of  old  family  Bibles 
to  the  most  approved  fashion  of  the  last  local  sheep  fair. 
The  room  was  lighted  by  half  a  dozen  candles,  having 
wicks  only  a  trifle  smaller  than  the  grease  which  envel- 
oped them,  in  candlesticks  that  were  never  used  but 
at  high-days,  holy  days,  and  family  feasts.  The  lights 
were  scattered  about  the  room,  two  of  them  standing 
on  the  chimney-piece.  This  position  of  candles  was 
in  itself  significant.  Candles  on  the  chimney-piece  al- 
ways meant  a  party. 

On  the  hearth,  in  front  of  a  back  brand  to  give  sub- 
stance, blazed  a  fire  of  thorns,  that  crackled  "like  the 
laughter  of  the  fool." 

Nineteen  persons  were  gathered  here.  Of  these,  five 
women,  wearing  gowns  of  various  bright  hues,  sat  in 
chairs  along  the  wall;  girls  shy  and  not  shy  filled  the 
window-bench;  four  men,  including  Charley  Jake,  the 
hedge-carpenter,  Elijah  New,  the  parish  clerk,  and  John 
Pitcher,  a  neighboring  dairyman,  the  shepherd's  father- 
in-law,  lolled  in  the  settle;  a  young  man  and  maid,  who 
were  blushing  over  tentative  'pourparlers  on  a  life-com- 
panionship, sat  beneath  the  corner  cupboard;  and  an 
elderly  engaged  man  of  fifty  or  upward  moved  restlessly 
about  from  spots  where  his  betrothed  was  not  to  the 
spot  where  she  was.  Enjoyment  was  jiretty  general,  and 
so  much  the  more  prevailed  in  being  unhampered  by 


264  PLOT 

conventional  restrictions.  Absolute  confidence  in  one 
another's  good  opinion  begat  perfect  ease,  while  the 
finishing  stroke  of  manner,  amounting  to  a  truly  princely 
serenity,  was  lent  to  the  majority  by  the  absence  of  any 
expression  or  trait  denoting  that  they  wished  to  get  on 
in  the  world,  enlarge  their  minds,  or  do  any  eclipsing 
thing  whatever,  which  nowadays  so  generally  nips  the 
bloom,  and  bonhomie  of  all  except  the  two  extremes  of 
the  social  scale. 

Shepherd  Fennel  had  married  well,  his  wife  being  a 
dairyman's  daughter  from  the  valley  below,  who  brought 
fifty  guineas  in  her  pocket  —  and  kept  them  there  till 
they  should  be  required  for  ministering  to  the  needs  of 
a  coming  family.  This  frugal  woman  had  been  somewhat 
exercised  as  to  the  character  that  should  be  given  to  the 
gathering.  A  sit-still  party  had  its  advantages;  but  an 
undisturbed  position  of  ease  in  chairs  and  settles  was 
apt  to  lead  on  the  men  to  such  an  unconscionable  deal 
of  toping  that  they  would  sometimes  fairly  drink  the 
house  dry.  A  dancing-party  was  the  alternative;  but 
this,  while  avoiding  the  foregoing  objection  on  the  score 
of  good  drink,  had  a  counterbalancing  disadvantage  in 
the  matter  of  good  victuals,  the  ravenous  appetites  en- 
gendered by  the  exercise  causing  immense  havoc  in  the 
buttery.  Shepherdess  Fennel  fell  back  upon  the  inter- 
mediate plan  of  mingling  short  dances  with  short  periods 
of  talk  and  singing,  so  as  to  hinder  any  ungovernable 
rage  in  either.  But  this  scheme  was  entirely  confined 
to  her  own  gentle  mind ;  the  shepherd  himself  was  in  the 
mood  to  exhibit  the  most  reckless  phases  of  hospitality. 

The  fiddler  was  a  boy  of  those  parts,  about  twelve 
years  of  age,  who  had  a  wonderful  dexterity  in  jigs  and 
reels,  though  his  fingers  were  so  small  and  short  as  to 
necessitate  a  constant  shifting  for  the  high  notes,  from 


THE  THREE  STR.VNGERS  265 

which  he  scrambled  back  to  the  first  position  with 
sounds  not  of  unmixed  purity  of  tone.  At  seven  the  shrill 
"tweedledee"  of  this  youngster  had  begun,  accomj)a- 
nied  by  a  booming  ground  bass  from  EHjah  New,  the 
parish  clerk,  who  had  thoughtfully  brought  with  him 
his  favorite  musical  instrument,  the  seri:)ent.  Dancing 
was  instantaneous,  Mrs.  Fennel  privately  enjoining  the 
players  on  no  account  to  let  the  dance  exceed  the  length 
of  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

But  Elijah  and  the  boy,  in  the  excitement  of  their 
position,  quite  forgot  the  injunction.  Moreover,  Oliver 
Giles,  a  man  of  seventeen,  one  of  the  dancers,  who  was 
enamoured  of  his  partner,  a  fair  girl  of  thirty-three 
rolling  years,  had  recklessly  handed  a  new  crown-piece 
to  the  musicians  as  a  bribe  to  keep  going  as  long  as  they 
had  muscle  and  wind.  Mrs.  Fennel,  seeing  the  steam 
begin  to  generate  on  the  countenances  of  her  guests, 
crossed  over  and  touched  the  fiddler's  elbow  and  put 
her  hand  on  the  serpent's  mouth.  But  they  took  no 
notice,  and,  fearing  she  might  lose  her  character  of  genial 
hostess  if  she  were  to  interfere  too  markedly,  she  retired 
and  sat  do\vTi  heli)less.  And  so  the  dance  whizzed  on 
with  cumulative  fury,  the  performers  moving  in  their 
planet-like  courses,  direct  and  retrograde,  from  ajiogee 
to  perigee,  till  the  hand  of  the  well-kicked  clock  at  the 
bottom  of  the  room  had  traveled  over  the  circumfer- 
ence of  an  hour. 

While  these  cheerful  events  were  in  course  of  enact- 
ment within  Fennel's  pastoral  dwelling,  an  incident 
having  considerable  bearing  on  the  party  had  occurred 
in  the  gloomy  night  without.  Mrs.  Fennel's  concern 
about  the  growing  fierceness  of  the  dance  corresponded 
in  point  of  time  with  the  ascent  of  a  hiunan  figure  to  the 
solitary  hill  of  Higher  Crowstairs  from  the  direction  of 


2G6  PLOT 

the  distant  town.  This  personage  strode  on  through  the 
rain  without  a  pause,  following  the  little  worn  path 
which,  farther  on  in  its  course,  skirted  the  shepherd's 
cottage. 

It  was  nearly  the  time  of  full  moon,  and  on  this  ac- 
count, though  the  sky  was  lined  with  a  uniform  sheet  of 
dripping  cloud,  ordinary  objects  out  of  doors  were  readily 
visible.  The  sad,  wan  light  revealed  the  lonely  pedes- 
trian to  be  a  man  of  supple  frame;  his  gait  suggested 
that  he  had  somewhat  passed  the  period  of  perfect  and 
instinctive  agility,  though  not  so  far  as  to  be  otherwise 
than  rapid  of  motion  when  occasion  required.  In  point 
of  fact,  he  might  have  been  about  forty  years  of  age. 
He  appeared  tall;  but  a  recruiting  sergeant,"  or  other 
person  accustomed  to  the  judging  of  men's  heights  by 
the  eye,  would  have  discerned  that  his  was  chiefly  owing 
to  his  gauntness,  and  that  he  was  not  more  than  five 
feet  eight  or  nine. 

Notwithstanding  the  regularity  of  his  tread,  there 
was  caution  in  it,  as  in  that  of  one  who  mentally  feels 
his  way;  and,  in  despite  the  fact  that  it  was  not  a  black 
coat  nor  a  dark  garment  of  any  sort  that  he  wore,  there 
was  something  about  him  which  suggested  that  he  natu- 
rally belonged  to  the  black-coated  tribes  of  men.  His 
clothes  were  of  fustian  and  his  boots  hobnailed,  yet  in 
his  progress  he  showed  not  the  mud-accustomed  bear- 
ing of  hobnailed  and  fustianed  peasantry. 

By  the  time  that  he  had  arrived  abreast  of  the  shep- 
herd's premises,  the  rain  came  down,  or  rather  came 
along,  with  yet  more  determined  violence.  The  out- 
skirts of  the  little  homestead  partially  broke  the  force 
of  wind  and  rain,  and  this  induced  him  to  stand  still. 
The  most  salient  of  the  shepherd's  domestic  erections 
was  an  empty  sty  at  the  forward  comer  of  his  hedgeless 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  267 

garden,  for  in  these  latitudes  the  principle  of  masking 
the  homelier  features  of  your  establishment  by  a  con- 
ventional frontage  was  unknown.  The  traveler's  eye 
was  attracted  to  this  small  building  by  the  pallid  shine 
of  the  wet  slates  that  covered  it.  He  turned  aside,  and, 
finding  it  empty,  stood  under  the  pent-roof  for  shelter. 

While  he  stood,  the  boom  of  the  serpent  within  and 
the  lesser  strains  of  the  fiddler  reached  the  spot,  as  an 
accompaniment  to  the  surging  hiss  of  the  flying  rain  on 
the  sod,  its  louder  beating  on  the  cabbage-leaves  of  the 
garden,  on  the  eight  or  ten  beehives  just  discernible  by 
the  path,  and  its  dripping  from  the  eaves  into  a  row  of 
buckets  and  pans  that  had  been  placed  under  the  walls 
of  the  cottage;  for  at  Higher  Crowstairs,  as  at  all  such 
elevated  domiciles,  the  grand  diflBculty  of  housekeeping 
was  an  insufficiency  of  water,  and  a  casual  rainfall  was 
utilized  by  turning  out  as  catchers  every  utensil  that  the 
house  contained.  Some  queer  stories  might  be  told  of 
the  contrivances  for  economy  in  suds  and  dishwaters 
that  are  absolutely  necessitated  in  upland  habitations 
during  the  droughts  of  summer.  But  at  this  season  there 
were  no  such  exigencies;  a  mere  acceptance  of  what  the 
skies  bestowed  was  sufficient  for  an  abundant  store. 

At  last  the  notes  of  the  serpent  ceased  and  the  house 
was  silent.  This  cessation  of  activity  aroused  the  soli- 
tary pedestrian  from  the  reverie  into  which  he  had 
lapsed,  and,  emerging  from  the  shed,  with  an  apparently 
new  intention,  he  walked  up  the  path  to  the  house  door. 
Arrived  here,  his  first  act  was  to  kneel  down  on  a  large 
stone  beside  the  row  of  vessels  and  to  drink  a  copious 
draught  from  one  of  them.  Having  quenched  his  thirst, 
he  rose  and  lifted  his  hand  to  knock,  but  paused  with 
his  eye  upon  the  panel.  Since  the  dark  surface  of  the 
wood  revealed  absolutely  nothing,  it  was  evident  that 


268  PLOT 

he  must  be  mentally  looking  through  the  door,  as  if  he 
wished  to  measure  thereby  all  the  possibilities  that  a 
house  of  this  sort  might  include,  and  how  they  might 
bear  upon  the  question  of  his  entry. 

In  his  indecision  he  turned  and  surveyed  the  scene 
around.  Not  a  soul  was  anywhere  visible.  The  garden 
path  stretched  downward  from  his  feet,  gleaming  like 
the  track  of  a  snail;  the  roof  of  the  little  well  (mostly 
dry),  the  well-cover,  the  top  rail  of  the  garden  gate, 
were  varnished  with  the  same  dull  liquid  glaze;  while, 
far  away  in  the  vale,  a  faint  whiteness  of  more  than 
usual  extent  showed  that  the  rivers  were  high  in  the 
meads.  Beyond  all  this  winked  a  few  bleared  lamplights 
through  the  beating  drops,  lights  that  denoted  the  situa- 
tion of  the  county  town  from  which  he  had  appeared 
to  come.  The  absence  of  all  notes  of  life  in  that  direction 
seemed  to  clinch  his  intentions,  and  he  knocked  at  the 
door. 

Within  a  desultory  chat  had  taken  the  place  of  move- 
ment and  musical  sound.  The  hedge-carpenter  was 
suggesting  a  song  to  the  company,  which  nobody  just 
then  was  inclined  to  undertake,  so  that  the  knock  af- 
forded a  not  unwelcome  diversion. 

"Walk  in!"  said  the  shepherd,  promptly. 

The  latch  clicked  upward,  and  out  of  the  night  our 
pedestrian  appeared  upon  the  doormat.  The  shepherd 
arose,  snuffed  two  of  the  nearest  candles,  and  turned  to 
look  at  him. 

Their  light  disclosed  that  the  stranger  was  dark  in 
complexion  and  not  unprepossessing  as  to  feature.  His 
hat,  which  for  a  moment  he  did  not  remove,  hung  low 
over  his  eyes,  without  concealing  that  they  were  large, 
open,  and  determined,  moving  with  a  flash  rather  than 
a  glance  round  the  room.    He  seemed  pleased  with  the 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  2G9 

survey,  and,  baring  his  shaggy  head,  said,  in  a  rich,  deep 
voice,  "The  rain  is  so  heavy,  friends,  that  I  ask  leave 
to  come  in  and  rest  awhile." 

"To  be  sure,  stranger,"  said  the  shc])herd.  "And, 
faith,  you've  been  lucky  in  choosing  your  time,  for  we 
are  having  a  bit  of  a  fling  for  a  glad  cause  —  though, 
to  be  sure,  a  man  could  hardly  wish  that  glad  cause  to 
happen  more  than  once  a  year." 

"Nor  less,"  spoke  up  a  woman;  "for  't  is  best  to  get 
your  family  over  and  done  with  as  soon  as  you  can,  so 
as  to  be  all  the  earlier  out  of  the  fag  o't." 

"And  what  may  be  this  glad  cause?"  asked  the 
stranger. 

"A  birth  and  christening,"  said  the  shepherd. 

The  stranger  hoped  his  host  might  not  be  made  un- 
happy either  by  too  many  or  too  few  of  such  episodes, 
and,  being  invited  by  a  gesture  to  a  pull  at  the  mug,  he 
readily  acquiesced.  His  manner,  which  before  entering 
had  been  so  dubious,  was  now  altogether  that  of  a  care- 
less and  candid  man. 

"Late  to  be  traipsing  athwart  this  coomb- — hey?" 
said  the  engaged  man  of  fifty. 

"Late  it  is,  master,  as  you  say.  I '11  take  a  seat  in  the 
chimney-corner  if  you  have  nothing  to  urge  against  it, 
ma'am,  for  I  am  a  little  moist  on  the  side  that  was  next 
the  rain." 

Mrs.  Shepherd  Fennel  assented,  and  made  room  for 
the  self-invited  comer,  who,  having  got  completely  inside 
the  chimney-corner,  stretched  out  his  legs  and  his  arms 
with  the  expansiveness  of  a  person  quite  at  home. 

"Yes,  I  am  rather  thin  in  the  vamp,"  he  said,  freely, 
seeing  that  the  eyes  of  the  shepherd's  wife  fell  upon  his 
boots,  "and  I  am  not  well  fitted,  either.  I  have  had  some 
rough  times  lately,  and  have  been  forced  to  pick  up  what 


270  PLOT 

I  can  get  in  the  way  of  wearing;  but  I  must  find  a  suit 
better  fit  for  working-days  when  I  reach  home." 

"One  of  hereabouts?"  she  inquired. 

"Not  quite  that  —  farther  up  the  country." 

"I  thought  so.  And  so  am  I;  and  by  your  tongue  you 
come  from  my  neighborhood." 

"But  you  would  hardly  have  heard  of  me,"  he  said 
quickly.  "My  time  would  be  long  before  yours,  ma'am, 
you  see." 

This  testimony  to  the  youthfulness  of  his  hostess  had 
the  effect  of  stopping  her  cross-examination. 

"There  is  only  one  thing  more  wanted  to  make  me 
happy,"  continued  the  newcomer;  "and  that  is  a  little 
'baccy,  which  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  am  out  of." 

"I'll  fill  your  pipe,"  said  the  shepherd. 

"I  must  ask  you  to  lend  me  a  pipe  likewise." 

"A  smoker,  and  no  pipe  about  ye?" 

"I  have  dropped  it  somewhere  on  the  road." 

The  shepherd  filled  and  handed  him  a  new  clay  pipe, 
saying  as  he  did  so,  "Hand  me  your  'baccy -box;  I'll 
fill  that  too,  now  I  am  about  it." 

The  man  went  through  the  movement  of  searching 
his  pockets. 

"Lost  that,  too?"  said  the  entertainer,  with  some 
surprise. 

"I  am  afraid  so,"  said  the  man,  with  some  confusion, 
"Give  it  to  me  in  a  screw  of  paper."  Lighting  his  pipe 
at  the  candle  with  a  suction  that  drew  the  whole  flame 
into  the  bowl,  he  resettled  himself  in  the  corner,  and  bent 
his  looks  upon  the  faint  steam  from  his  damp  legs  as  if 
he  wished  to  say  no  more. 

Meanwhile  the  general  body  of  guests  had  been  tak- 
ing little  notice  of  this  visitor  by  reason  of  an  absorbing 
discussion  in  which  they  were  engaged  with  the  band 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  271 

about  a  tune  for  the  next  dance.  The  matter  being  set- 
tled, they  were  about  to  stand  up,  when  an  interruption 
came  in  the  shape  of  another  knock  at  the  door. 

At  sound  of  the  same  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner 
took  up  the  poker  and  began  stirring  the  fire  as  if  doing 
it  thoroughly  were  the  one  aim  of  his  existence,  and  a 
second  time  the  shepherd  said,  "Walk  in!"  In  a  mo- 
ment another  man  stood  upon  the  straw-woven  door- 
mat.   He,  too,  was  a  stranger. 

This  individual  was  one  of  a  type  radically  different 
from  the  first.  There  was  more  of  the  commonplace  in 
his  manner,  and  a  certain  jovial  cosmpolitanism  sat 
upon  his  features.  He  was  several  years  older  than  the 
first  arrival,  his  hair  being  slightly  frosted,  his  eyebrows 
bristly,  and  his  whiskers  cut  back  from  his  cheeks.  His 
face  was  rather  full  and  flabby,  and  yet  it  was  not  alto- 
gether a  face  without  power.  A  few  grog-blossoms 
marked  the  neighborhood  of  his  nose.  He  flung  back 
his  long  drab  greatcoat,  revealing  that  beneath  it  he 
wore  a  suit  of  cinder-gray  shade  throughout,  large, 
heavy  seals,  of  some  metal  or  other  that  would  take  a 
polish,  dangling  from  his  fob  as  his  only  personal  orna- 
ment. Shaking  the  water-drops  from  his  low-crowned, 
glazed  hat,  he  said,  "I  must  ask  for  a  few  minutes' 
shelter,  comrades,  or  I  shall  be  wetted  to  my  skin  before 
I  get  to  Casterbridge." 

"Make  yerself  at  home,  master,"  said  the  shepherd, 
perhaps  a  trifle  less  heartily  than  on  the  first  occasion. 
Not  that  Fennel  had  the  least  tinge  of  niggardliness  in 
his  composition,  but  the  room  was  far  from  large,  sj)are 
chairs  were  not  numerous,  and  damp  companions  were 
not  altogether  comfortable  at  close  quarters  for  the 
women  and  girls  in  their  bright-colored  gowns. 

However,  the  second  comer,  after  taking  ofl"  his  great- 


272  PLOT 

coat  and  hanging  his  hat  on  a  nail  in  one  of  the  ceiling 
beams  as  if  he  had  been  specially  invited  to  put  it  there, 
advanced,  and  sat  down  at  the  table.  This  had  been 
pushed  so  closely  into  the  chimney-corner,  to  give  all 
available  room  to  the  dancers,  that  its  inner  edge  grazed 
the  elbow  of  the  man  who  had  ensconed  himself  by  the 
fire,  and  thus  the  two  strangers  were  brought  into  close 
companionship.  They  nodded  to  each  other  by  way  of 
breaking  the  ice  of  unacquaintance,  and  the  first  stran- 
ger handed  his  neighbor  the  large  mug  —  a  huge  vessel 
of  brown  ware,  having  its  upper  edge  worn  away,  like 
a  threshold,  by  the  rub  of  whole  genealogies  of  thirsty 
lips  that  had  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh,  and  bearing  the 
following  inscription  burned  upon  its  rotund  side  in 
yellow  letters :  — 

•       THERE    IS   NO  FUN 
UNTILL  I   CUM. 

The  other  man,  nothing  loath,  raised  the  mug  to  his 
lips,  and  drank  on  and  on  and  on,  till  a  curious  blueness 
overspread  the  countenance  of  the  shepherd's  wife,  who 
had  regarded  with  no  little  surprise  the  first  stranger's 
free  offer  to  the  second  of  what  did  not  belong  to  him 
to  dispense. 

"I  knew  it!"  said  the  toper  to  the  shepherd,  with 
much  satisfaction.  "When  I  walked  up  your  garden 
afore  coming  in,  and  saw  the  hives  all  of  a  row,  I  said 
to  myself,  'Where  there's  bees  there's  honey,  and  where 
there's  honey  there's  mead.'  But  mead  of  such  a  truly 
comfortable  sort  as  this  I  really  did  n't  expect  to  meet 
in  my  older  days."  He  took  yet  another  pull  at  the  mug, 
till  it  assumed  an  ominous  horizontality. 

"Glad  you  enjoy  it!"    said  the  shepherd,  warmly. 

"It  is  goodish  mead,"  assented  Mrs.  Fennel,  with  an 


THE  THREE  STR^VNGERS  273 

absence  of  enthusiasm  which  seemed  to  say  that  it  was 
possible  to  buy  praise  for  one's  cellar  at  too  heavy  a 
price.  "It  is  trouble  enough  to  make  —  and  really  I 
hardly  think  we  shall  make  any  more.  For  honey  sells 
well,  and  we  can  make  shift  with  a  drop  o'  small  mead 
and  metheglin  for  common  use  from  the  comb-wash- 
ings." 

"Oh,  but  you'll  never  have  the  heart!"  reproachfully 
cried  the  stranger  in  cinder  gray,  after  taking  up  the 
mug  a  third  time  and  setting  it  down  empty.  "I  love 
mead,  when  't  is  old  like  this,  as  I  love  to  go  to  church 
o'  Sundays  or  to  relieve  the  needy  any  day  of  the  week." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  said  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner, 
who,  in  spite  of  the  taciturnity  induced  by  the  pipe  of 
tobacco,  could  not  or  would  not  refrain  from  this  slight 
testimony  to  his  comrade's  humor. 

Now  the  old  mead  of  those  days,  brewed  of  the  purest 
first-year  or  maiden  honey,  four  pounds  to  the  gallon, 
■ —  with  its  due  complement  of  whites  of  eggs,  cinnamon, 
ginger,  cloves,  mace,  rosemary,  yeast,  and  processes  of 
working,  bottling,  and  cellaring,  —  tasted  remarkably 
strong;  but  it  did  not  taste  so  strong  as  it  actually  was. 
Hence,  presently  the  stranger  in  cinder  gray  at  the 
table,  moved  by  its  creeping  influence,  unbuttoned  his 
waistcoat,  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  spread  his 
legs,  and  made  his  presence  felt  in  various  ways. 

"Well,  well,  as  I  say,"  he  resumed,  "I  am  going  to 
Casterbridge,  and  to  Casterbridge  I  must  go.  I  should 
have  been  almost  there  by  this  time;  but  the  rain  drove 
me  in  to  ye,  and  I'm  not  sorry  for  it." 

"You  don't  live  in  Casterbridge?"  said  the  shejihcrd. 

"Not  as  yet,  though  I  shortly  mean  to  move  there." 

"Going  to  set  up  in  trade,  perhajxs.'" 

"No,  no,"  said  the  shepherd's  wife;  "it  is  easy  to  see 


274  PLOT 

that  the  gentleman  is  rich  and  don't  want  to  work  at 
anything." 

The  cinder-gray  stranger  paused,  as  if  to  consider 
whether  he  would  accept  that  definition  of  himself.  He 
presently  rejected  it  by  answering,  "Rich  is  not  quite 
the  word  for  me,  dame.  I  do  work,  and  I  must  work. 
And  even  if  I  only  get  to  Casterbridge  by  midnight  I 
must  begin  work  there  at  eight  to-morrow  morning.  Yes, 
het  or  wet,  blow  or  snow,  famine  or  sword,  my  day's 
work  to-morrow  must  be  done." 

"Poor  man!  Then,  in  spite  o'  seeming,  you  be  worse 
off  than  we?"  replied  the  shepherd's  wife. 

"  'T  is  the  nature  of  my  trade,  men  and  maidens. 
T  is  the  nature  of  my  trade  more  than  my  poverty. 
But  really  and  truly,  I  must  up  and  off,  or  I  shan't 
get  a  lodging  in  the  town."  However,  the  speaker  did 
not  move,  and  directly  added,  "There's  time  for  one 
more  draught  of  friendship  before  I  go,  and  I  'd  perform 
it  at  once  if  the  mug  were  not  dry," 

"Here's  a  mug  o'  small,"  said  Mrs.  Fennel.  "Small, 
we  call  it,  though,  to  be  sure,  't  is  only  the  first  wash 
o'  the  combs." 

"No,"  said  the  stranger,  disdainfully;  "I  won't  spoil 
your  first  kindness  by  partaking  o'  your  second." 

"Certainly  not,"  broke  in  Fennel.  "We  don't  increase 
and  multiply  every  day,  and  I'll  fill  the  mug  again." 
He  went  away  to  the  dark  place  under  the  stairs  where 
the  barrel  stood.   The  shepherdess  followed  him. 

"Why  should  you  do  this?"  she  said,  reproachfully, 
as  soon  as  they  were  alone.  "He's  emptied  it  once, 
though  it  held  enough  for  ten  people;  and  now  he's  not 
contented  wi'  the  small,  but  must  needs  call  for  more 
o'  the  strong!  And  a  stranger  unbeknown  to  any  of  us! 
For  my  part,  I  don't  like  the  look  o'  the  man  at  all," 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  275 

"  But  he 's  in  the  house,  my  honey,  and 't  is  a  wet  night, 
and  a  christening.  Daze  it,  what's  a  cup  of  mead  more 
or  less?   There'll  be  plenty  more  next  bee-burning." 

"Very  well  —  this  time,  then,"  she  answered,  look- 
ing wistfully  at  the  barrel.  "But  what  is  the  man's 
calling,  and  where  is  he  one  of,  that  he  should  come  in 
and  join  us  like  this?" 

"I  don't  know.    I'll  ask  him  again." 

The  catastrophe  of  having  the  mug  drained  dry  at 
one  pull  by  the  stranger  in  cinder  gray  was  effectually 
guarded  against  this  time  by  Mrs.  Fennel.  She  poured 
out  his  allowance  in  a  small  cup,  keeping  the  large  one 
at  a  discreet  distance  from  him.  When  he  had  tossed  off 
his  portion  the  shepherd  renewed  his  inquiry  about  the 
stranger's  occupation. 

The  latter  did  not  immediately  reply,  and  the  man  in 
the  chimney-corner,  with  sudden  demonstrativeness, 
said,  "Anybody  may  know  my  trade  —  I'm  a  wheel- 
wright." 

"A  very  good  trade  for  these  parts,"  said  the  shepherd. 

"And  anybody  may  know  mine —  if  they've  the 
sense  to  find  it  out,"  said  the  stranger  in  cinder  gray. 

"You  may  generally  tell  what  a  man  is  by  his  claws," 
observed  the  hedge-carpenter,  looking  at  his  hands. 
"  My  fingers  be  as  full  of  thorns  as  an  old  pincushion  is  of 
pms. 

The  hands  of  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner  instinc- 
tively sought  the  shade,  and  he  gazed  into  the  fire  as  he 
resumed  his  pipe.  The  man  at  the  table  took  up  the 
hedge-carpenter's  remark,  and  added  smartly,  "True; 
but  the  oddity  of  my  trade  is  that,  instead  of  setting  a 
mark  upon  me,  it  sets  a  mark  upon  my  customers." 

No  observation  being  offered  by  anybody  in  elucida- 
tion of  this  enigma,  the  shepherd's  wife  once  more  called 


276  PLOT 

for  a  song.  The  same  obstacles  presented  themselves  as 
at  the  former  time:  one  had  no  voice,  another  had  for- 
gotten the  first  verse.  The  stranger  at  the  table,  whose 
soul  had  now  risen  to  a  good  working  temperature, 
relieved  the  difficulty  by  exclaiming  that,  to  start  the 
company,  he  would  sing  himself.  Thrusting  one  thumb 
into  the  armhole  of  his  waistcoat,  he  waved  the  other 
hand  in  the  air,  and,  with  an  extemporizing  gaze  at  the 
shining  sheep-crooks  above  the  mantlepiece,  began :  — 

"Oh,  my  trade  it  is  the  rarest  one, 

Simple  shepherds  all, 
My  trade  is  a  sight  to  see; 
For  my  customers  I  tie,  and  take  them  up  on  high. 
And  waft  'em  to  a  far  countree." 

The  room  was  silent  when  he  had  finished  the  verse, 
with  one  exception,  that  of  the  man  in  the  chimney- 
corner,  who,  at  the  singer's  word,  "Chorus!"  joined 
him  in  a  deep  bass  voice  of  musical  relish :  — 

"And  waft  'em  to  a  far  countree." 

Oliver  Giles,  John  Pitcher,  the  dairyman,  the  parish 
clerk,  the  engaged  man  of  fifty,  the  row  of  young  women 
against  the  wall,  seemed  lost  in  thought  not  of  the  gay- 
est kind.  The  shepherd  looked  meditatively  on  the 
ground;  the  shepherdess  gazed  keenly  at  the  singer, 
and  with  some  suspicion;  she  was  doubting  whether 
this  stranger  was  merely  singing  an  old  song  from  re- 
collection, or  composing  one  there  and  then  for  the  occa- 
sion. All  were  as  perplexed  at  the  obscure  revelation 
as  the  guests  at  Belshazzar's  feast,  except  the  man  in 
the  chimney-comer,  who  quietly  said,  "Second  verse, 
stranger,"  and  smoked  on. 

The  singer  thoroughly  moistened  himself  from  his  lips 
inward,  and  went  on  with  the  next  stanza,  as  requested : — 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  277 

"  My  tools  are  but  common  ones, 

Simple  shepherds  all. 
My  tools  are  no  sight  to  see: 
A  little  hempen  string,  and  a  post  whereon  to  swing. 
Are  implements  enough  for  me." 

Shepherd  Fennel  glanced  round.  There  was  no  longer 
any  doubt  that  the  stranger  was  answering  his  question 
rhythmically.  The  guests  one  and  all  started  back  with 
suppressed  exclamations.  The  young  woman  engaged 
to  the  man  of  fifty  fainted  halfway,  and  would  have  pro- 
ceeded, but,  finding  him  wanting  in  alacrity  for  catch- 
ing her,  she  sat  down  trembling. 

"Oh,  he's  the  — "  whispered  the  people  in  the  back- 
ground, mentioning  the  name  of  an  ominous  public 
officer.  "He's  come  to  do  it.  'T  is  to  be  at  Casterbridge 
jail  to-morrow  —  the  man  for  sheep-stealing  —  the 
poor  clock-maker  we  heard  of,  who  used  to  live  away 
at  Anglebury  and  had  no  work  to  do  —  Timothy  Som- 
mers,  whose  family  were  a-starving,  and  so  he  went  out 
of  Anglebury  by  the  highroad,  and  took  a  sheep  in  open 
daylight,  defying  the  farmer  and  the  farmer's  wife  and 
the  farmer's  man  and  every  man  Jack  among  'em.  He" 
(and  they  nodded  toward  the  stranger  of  the  terrible 
trade)  "is  come  from  up  the  country  to  do  it  because 
there's  not  enough  to  do  in  his  county  town,  and  he's 
got  the  place  here,  now  our  own  county  man's  dead; 
he's  going  to  live  in  the  same  cottage  under  the  prison 
wall." 

The  stranger  in  cinder  gray  took  no  notice  of  this  whis- 
pered string  of  observations,  but  again  wetted  his  lips. 
Seeing  that  his  friend  in  the  chimney-corner  was  the 
only  one  who  reciprocated  his  joviality  in  any  way,  he 
held  out  his  cup  toward  that  appreciative  comrade, 
who  also  held  out  his  own.  They  clinked  together,  the 
eyes  of  the  rest  of  the  room  hanging  upon  the  singer's 


278  -  PLOT 

actions.  He  parted  his  lips  for  the  third  verse,  but  at 
that  moment  another  knock  was  audible  upon  the  door. 
This  time  the  knock  was  faint  and  hesitating. 

The  company  seemed  scared;  the  shepherd  looked  with 
consternation  toward  the  entrance,  and  it  was  with 
some  effort  that  he  resisted  his  alarmed  wife's  depreca- 
tory glance,  and  uttered  for  the  third  time  the  welcoming 
words,  "Walk  in!" 

The  door  was  gently  opened,  and  another  man  stood 
upon  the  mat.  He,  like  those  who  had  preceded  him, 
was  a  stranger.  This  time  it  w^as  a  short,  small  person- 
age, of  fair  complexion,  and  dressed  in  a  decent  suit  of 
dark  clothes. 

"Can  you  tell  me  the  way  to — "  he  began;  when, 
gazing  round  the  room  to  observe  the  nature  of  the  com- 
pany among  whom  he  had  fallen,  his  eyes  lighted  on 
the  stranger  in  cinder  gray.  It  was  just  at  the  instant 
when  the  latter,  who  had  thrown  his  mind  into  his  song 
with  such  a  will  that  he  scarcely  heeded  the  interrup- 
tion, silenced  all  whispers  and  inquiries  by  bursting 
into  his  third  verse :  — 

"To-morrow  is  my  working-day, 

Simple  shepherds  all. 
To-morrow  is  a  working-day  for  me; 
For  the  farmer's  sheep  is  slain,  and  the  lad  who  did  it  ta'en. 
And  on  his  soul  may  God  ha'  merc-y!" 

The  stranger  in  the  chimney-corner,  waving  cups  with 
the  singer  so  heartily  that  his  mead  splashed  over  on 
the  hearth,  repeated  in  his  bass  voice  as  before:  — 

"And  on  his  soul  may  God  ha'  merc-y!" 

All  this  time  the  third  stranger  had  been  standing 
in  the  doorway.  Finding  now  that  he  did  not  come  for- 
ward or  go  on  speaking,  the  guests  particularly  regarded 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  279 

him.  They  noticed,  to  their  surprise,  that  he  stood  be- 
fore them  the  picture  of  abject  terror  —  his  knees  trem- 
bling, his  hand  shaking  so  violently  that  the  door-latch, 
by  which  he  supported  himself,  rattled  audibly ;  his  white 
lips  were  parted,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  merry  officer 
of  justice  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  A  moment  more, 
and  he  had  turned,  closed  the  door,  and  fled. 

"What  a  man  can  it  be?"  said  the  shepherd. 

The  rest,  between  the  awfulness  of  their  late  dis- 
covery and  the  odd  conduct  of  this  third  visitor,  looked 
as  if  they  knew  not  what  to  think,  and  said  nothing. 
Instinctively  they  withdrew  farther  and  farther  from 
the  grim  gentleman  in  their  midst,  whom  some  of  them 
seemed  to  take  for  the  Prince  of  Darkness  himself,  till 
they  formed  a  remote  circle,  an  empty  space  of  floor 
being  left  between  them  and  him  — 

"Circulus,  cujus  centrum  diabolus." 

The  room  was  so  silent  —  though  there  were  more  than 
twenty  people  in  it  —  that  nothing  could  be  heard  but 
the  patter  of  the  rain  against  the  window-shutters,  ac- 
companied by  the  occasional  hiss  of  a  stray  drop  that 
fell  down  the  chimney  into  the  fire,  and  the  steady 
puffing  of  the  man  in  the  corner,  who  had  now  resumed 
his  long  pipe  of  clay. 

The  stillness  was  unexpectedly  broken.  The  distant 
sound  of  a  gun  reverberated  through  the  air,  apparently 
from  the  direction  of  the  county  town, 

"Be  jiggered!"  cried  the  stranger  who  had  sung  the 
song,  jumping  up. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  asked  several. 

"A  prisoner  escaped  from  the  jail  —  that's  what  it 
means." 

All  listened.    The  sound  was  repeated,  and  none  of 


280  PLOT 

them  spoke  but  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner,  who  said 
quietly,  "I've  often  been  told  that  in  this  county  they 
fire  a  gun  at  such  times,  but  I  never  heard  it  till  now." 

"I  wonder  if  it  is  my  man?"  murmured  the  personage 
in  cinder  gray. 

"Surely  it  is!"  said  the  shepherd,  involuntarily. 
"And  surely  we've  seen  him!  That  little  man  who 
looked  in  at  the  door  by  now,  and  quivered  like  a  leaf 
when  he  seed  ye  and  heard  your  song." 

"His  teeth  chattered,  and  the  breath  went  out  of  his 
body,"  said  the  dairyman. 

"And  his  heart  seemed  to  sink  within  him  like  a 
stone,"  said  Oliver  Giles. 

"And  he  bolted  as  if  he'd  been  shot  at,"  said  the 
hedge-carpenter. 

"True  —  his  teeth  chattered,  and  his  heart  seemed 
to  sink,  and  he  bolted  as  if  he'd  been  shot  at,"  slowly 
summed  up  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner. 

"I  didn't  notice  it,"  remarked  the  grim  songster. 

"We  were  all  a-wondering  what  made  him  run  off 
in  such  a  fright,"  faltered  one  of  the  women  against  the 
wall,  "and  now  't  is  explained." 

The  firing  of  the  alarm-gun  went  on  at  intervals,  low 
and  sullenly,  and  their  suspicions  became  a  certainty. 
The  sinister  gentleman  in  cinder  gray  roused  himself. 
"Is  there  a  constable  here?"  he  asked,  in  thick  tones. 
"If  so,  let  him  step  forward." 

The  engaged  man  of  fifty  stepped  quavering  out  of 
the  corner,  his  betrothed  beginning  to  sob  on  the  back 
of  the  chair. 

"You  are  a  sworn  constable?" 

"I  be,  sir." 

"Then  pursue  the  criminal  at  once,  with  assistance, 
and  bring  him  back  here.  He  can't  have  gone  far." 


THE  THREE  STR.VNGERS  281 

"I  will,  sir,  I  will  —  when  I've  got  my  staff.  I'll  go 
home  and  get  it,  and  come  sharp  here,  and  start  in  a 
body." 

"Staff!  never  mind  your  staff  —  the  man '11  be  gone!" 

"But  I  can't  do  nothing  without  my  staff  —  can  I, 
William,  and  John,  and  Charles  Jake?  No;  for  there's 
the  king's  royal  crown  a-painted  on  en  in  yaller  and 
gold,  and  the  lion  and  the  unicorn,  so  as  when  I  raise 
en  up  and  hit  my  prisoner  't  is  made  a  lawful  blow  there- 
by. I  would  n't  'tempt  to  take  up  a  man  without  my 
staff  —  no,  not  I.  If  I  had  n't  the  law  to  gie  me  courage, 
why,  instead  o'  my  taking  him  up,  he  might  take  up 
me!" 

"Now,  I'm  a  king's  man  myself,  and  can  give  you 
authority  enough  for  this,"  said  the  formidable  person 
in  cinder  gray.  "  Now,  then,  all  of  ye,  be  ready.  Have  ye 
any  lanterns?" 

"Yes;  have  ye  any  lanterns?  I  demand  it,"  said  the 
nonstable. 

"And  the  rest  of  you  able-bodied  — " 

"Able-bodied  men  —  yes  —  the  rest  of  ye,"  said  the 
constable. 

"Have  you  some  good  stout  staves  and  pitchforks  — " 

"Staves  and  pitchforks  —  in  the  name  o'  the  law. 
And  take  'em  in  yer  hands  and  go  in  quest,  and  do  as  we 
in  authority  tell  ye." 

Thus  aroused,  the  men  prepared  to  give  chase.  The 
evidence  was,  indeed,  though  circumstantial,  so  con- 
vincing that  but  little  argument  was  needed  to  show  the 
shepherd's  guests  that,  after  what  they  had  seen,  it 
would  look  very  much  like  connivance  if  they  did  not 
instantly  pursue  the  unhapj)y  third  stranger,  who  could 
not  as  yet  have  gone  more  than  a  few  hundred  yards 
over  such  uneven  countrv. 


282  PLOT 

A  shepherd  is  always  well  provided  with  lanterns; 
and,  lighting  these  hastily,  and  with  hurdle-staves  in 
their  hands,  they  poured  out  of  the  door,  taking  a  direc- 
tion along  the  crest  of  the  hill,  away  from  the  town,  the 
rain  having  fortunately  a  little  abated. 

Disturbed  by  the  noise,  or  possibly  by  unpleasant 
dreams  of  her  baptism,  the  child  who  had  been  christ- 
ened began  to  cry  heart-brokenly  in  the  room  overhead. 
These  notes  of  grief  came  down  through  the  chinks  of 
the  floor  to  the  ears  of  the  women  below,  who  jumped  up, 
one  by  one,  and  seemed  glad  of  the  excuse  to  ascend  and 
comfort  the  baby ;  for  the  incidents  of  the  last  half -hour 
greatly  oppressed  them.  Thus  in  the  space  of  two  or 
three  minutes  the  room  on  the  ground  floor  was  de- 
serted quite. 

But  it  was  not  for  long.  Hardly  had  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps died  away  when  a  man  returned  round  the  corner 
of  the  house  from  the  direction  the  pursuers  had  taken. 
Peeping  in  at  the  door,  and  seeing  nobody  there,  he  en- 
tered leisurely.  It  was  the  stranger  of  the  chimney-cor- 
ner, who  had  gone  out  with  the  rest.  The  motive  of  his 
return  was  shown  by  his  helping  himself  to  a  cut  piece  of 
skimmer-cake  that  lay  on  a  ledge  beside  where  he  had  sat, 
and  which  he  had  apparently  forgotten  to  take  with  him. 
He  also  poured  out  half  a  cup  more  mead  from  the  quan- 
tity that  remained,  ravenously  eating  and  drinking  these 
as  he  stood.  He  had  not  finished  when  another  figure 
came  in  just  as  quietly  —  the  stranger  in  cinder  gray. 

"Oh,  you  here?"  said  the  latter,  smiling.  "I  thought 
you  had  gone  to  help  in  the  capture."  And  this  speaker 
also  revealed  the  object  of  his  return  by  looking  solici- 
tously round  for  the  fascinating  mug  of  old  mead. 

"And  I  thought  you  had  gone,"  said  the  other,  con- 
tinuing his  skimmer-cake  with  some  effort. 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  283 

"Well,  on  second  thoughts,  I  felt  there  were  enough 
without  me,"  said  the  first,  confidentially,  "and  such 
a  night  as  it  is,  too.  Besides,  't  is  the  business  o'  the 
Government  to  take  care  of  its  criminals,  not  mine." 

"True,  so  it  is;  and  I  felt  as  you  did  —  that  there  were 
enough  without  me." 

"I  don't  want  to  break  my  limbs  running  over  the 
humps  and  hollows  of  this  wild  country." 

"Nor  I,  either,  between  you  and  me." 

"These  shepherd  people  are  used  to  it  —  simple- 
minded  souls,  you  know,  stirred  up  to  anything  in  a 
moment.  They  '11  have  him  ready  for  me  before  the 
morning,  and  no  trouble  to  me  at  all." 

"They'll  have  him,  and  we  shall  have  saved  ourselves 
all  labor  in  the  matter." 

"True,  true.  Well,  my  way  is  to  Casterbridge,  and 
*t  is  as  much  as  my  legs  will  do  to  take  me  that  far. 
Going  the  same  way?" 

"  No,  I  'm  sorry  to  say.  I  have  to  get  home  over  there  " 
(he  nodded  indefinitely  to  the  right),  "and  I  feel  as  you 
do  —  that  it  is  quite  enough  for  my  legs  to  do  before 
bedtime." 

The  other  had  by  this  time  finished  the  mead  in  the 
mug,  after  which,  shaking  hands  at  the  door  and  wish- 
ing each  other  well,  they  went  their  several  ways. 

In  the  mean  time  the  company  of  pursuers  had  reached 
the  end  of  the  hog's-back  elevation  which  dominated  this 
part  of  the  coomb.  They  had  decided  on  no  particular 
plan  of  action,  and,  finding  that  the  man  of  the  baleful 
trade  was  no  longer  in  their  company,  they  seemed  quite 
unable  to  form  any  such  plan  now.  They  descended  in 
all  directions  down  the  hill,  and  straightway  several  of 
the  parties  fell  into  the  snare  set  by  nature  for  all 
misguided  midnight  ramblers  over  the  lower  cretaceous 


284  PLOT 

formation.  The  "lynchets,"  or  flint  slopes,  which 
belted  the  escarpment  at  intervals  of  a  dozen  yards, 
took  the  less  cautious  ones  unawares,  and,  losing  their 
footing  on  the  rubbly  steep,  they  slid  sharply  downward, 
the  lanterns  rolling  from  their  hands  to  the  bottom,  and 
there  lying  on  their  sides  till  the  horn  was  scorched 
through. 

When  they  had  again  gathered  themselves  together, 
the  shepherd,  as  the  man  who  knew  the  country  best, 
took  the  lead,  and  guided  them  round  these  treacherous 
inclines.  The  lanterns,  which  seemed  rather  to  dazzle 
their  eyes  and  warn  the  fugitive  than  to  assist  them  in 
the  exploration,  were  extinguished,  due  silence  was  ob- 
served, and  in  this  more  rational  order  they  plunged  into 
the  vale.  It  was  a  grassy,  briery,  moist  channel,  afford- 
ing some  shelter  to  any  person  who  had  sought  it;  but 
the  party  perambulated  it  in  vain,  and  ascended  on  the 
other  side.  Here  they  wandered  apart,  and  after  an 
interval  closed  together  again  to  report  progress.  At 
the  second  time  of  closing  in  they  found  themselves  near 
a  lonely  oak,  the  single  tree  on  this  part  of  the  upland, 
probably  sown  there  by  a  passing  bird  some  hundred 
years  before;  and  here,  standing  a  little  to  one  side  of  the 
the  trunk,  as  motionless  as  the  trunk  itself,  appeared  the 
man  they  were  in  quest  of,  his  outline  being  well  defined 
against  the  sky  beyond.  The  band  noiselessly  drew  up 
and  faced  him. 

"Your  money  or  your  life!"  said  the  constable, 
sternly,  to  the  still  figure. 

"No,  no,"  whispered  John  Pitcher.  "'T  is  n't  our 
side  ought  to  say  that.  That's  the  doctrine  of  vaga- 
bonds like  him,  and  we  be  on  the  side  of  the  law." 

"Well,  well,"  replied  the  constable,  impatiently,  "I 
must  say  something,  must  n't  I  ?    And  if  you  had  all 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  285 

the  weight  o'  this  undertaking  upon  your  mind,  per- 
haps you'd  say  the  wrong  thing,  too.  Prisoner  at  the 
bar,  surrender,  in  the  name  of  the  Fath  —  the  Crown, 
I  mane!" 

The  man  under  the  tree  seemed  now  to  notice  them  for 
the  first  time,  and,  giving  them  no  opportunity  what- 
ever for  exhibiting  their  courage,  he  strolled  slowly 
toward  them.  He  was,  indeed,  the  little  man,  the  third 
stranger,  but  his  trepidation  had  in  a  great  measure 
gone. 

"Well,  travelers,"  he  said,  "did  I  hear  ye  speak  to 
me?" 

"You  did;  you've  got  to  come  and  be  our  prisoner 
at  once,"  said  the  constable.  "  We  arrest  ye  on  the  charge 
of  not  biding  in  Casterbridge  jail  in  a  decent,  proper 
manner,  to  be  hung  to-morrow  morning.  Neighbors, 
do  your  duty,  and  seize  the  culpet!" 

On  hearing  the  charge,  the  man  seemed  enlightened, 
and,  saying  not  another  word,  resigned  himself  with 
preternatural  civility  to  the  search-party,  who,  with 
their  staves  in  their  hands,  surrounded  him  on  all  sides, 
and  marched  him  back  toward  the  shepherd's  cottage. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  by  the  time  they  arrived.  The 
light  shining  from  the  open  door,  a  sound  of  men's 
voices  within,  proclaimed  to  them,  as  they  approached 
the  house,  that  some  new  events  had  arisen  in  their 
absence.  On  entering  they  discovered  the  shepherd's 
living-room  to  be  invaded  by  two  officers  from  Caster- 
bridge  jail  and  a  well-known  magistrate  who  lived  at 
the  nearest  county-seat,  intelligence  of  the  escape  hav- 
ing become  generally  circulated. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  constable,  "I  have  brought 
back  your  man  —  not  without  risk  and  danger,  but 
every  one  must  do  his  duty.    He  is  inside  this  circle  of 


286  PLOT 

able-bodied  persons,  who  have  lent  me  useful  aid,  con- 
sidering their  ignorance  of  crown  work.  Men,  bring  for- 
ward your  prisoner."  And  the  third  stranger  was  led  to 
the  light. 

"Who  is  this.'*"  said  one  of  the  officials. 

"The  man,"  said  the  constable. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  the  other  turnkey,  and  the  first 
corroborated  his  statement. 

"But  how  can  it  be  otherwise?"  asked  the  constable. 
''Or  why  was  he  so  terrified  at  sight  of  the  singing  instru- 
ment of  the  law?"  Here  he  related  the  strange  behavior 
of  the  third  stranger  on  entering  the  house, 

"Can't  understand  it,"  said  the  officer,  coolly.  "All  I 
know  is  that  it  is  not  the  condemned  man.  He's  quite 
a  different  character  from  this  one;  a  gauntish  fellow, 
with  dark  hair  and  eyes,  rather  good-looking,  and  with 
a  musical  bass  voice  that,  if  you  heard  it  once,  you'd 
never  mistake  as  long  as  you  lived." 

"Why,  souls,  't  was  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner!" 

"Hey  —  what?"  said  the  magistrate,  coming  forward 
after  inquiring  particulars  from  the  shepherd  in  the 
background.    "Have  n't  you  got  the  man,  after  all?" 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  constable,  "he's  the  man  we 
were  in  search  of,  that's  true;  and  yet  he's  not  the  man 
we  were  in  search  of.  For  the  man  we  were  in  search  of 
was  not  the  man  we  wanted,  sir,  if  you  understand  my 
everyday  way;  for  't  was  the  man  in  the  chimney- 
corner." 

"A  pretty  kettle  of  fish  altogether!"  said  the  magis- 
trate. "You  had  better  start  for  the  other  man  at  once." 

The  prisoner  now  spoke  for  the  first  time.  The  men- 
tion of  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner  seemed  to  have 
moved  him  as  nothing  else  could  do.  "Sir,"  he  said, 
stepping  forward  to  the  magistrate,    "take  no  more 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  287 

trouble  about  me.  The  time  is  come  when  I  may  as  well 
speak.  I  have  done  nothing;  my  crime  is  that  the  con- 
demned man  is  my  brother.  Early  this  afternoon  I  left 
home  at  Anglebury  to  tramp  it  all  the  way  to  Caster* 
bridge  jail  to  bid  him  farewell.  I  was  benighted,  and 
called  here  to  rest  and  ask  the  way.  When  I  opened  the 
door  I  saw  before  me  the  very  man,  my  brother,  that 
I  thought  to  see  in  the  condemned  cell  at  Casterbridge. 
He  was  in  this  chimney-corner;  and,  jammed  close  to 
him,  so  that  he  could  not  have  got  out  if  he  had  tried, 
was  the  executioner  who  'd  come  to  take  his  life,  singing 
a  song  about  it,  and  not  knowing  that  it  was  his  victim 
who  was  close  by,  joining  in  to  save  appearances.  My 
brother  looked  a  glance  of  agony  at  me,  and  I  knew  he 
meant,  'Don't  reveal  what  you  see;  my  life  depends  on 
it.'  I  was  so  terror-struck  that  I  could  hardly  stand,  and, 
not  knowing  what  I  did,  I  turned  and  hurried  away." 

The  narrator's  manner  and  tone  had  the  stamp  of 
truth,  and  his  story  made  a  great  impression  on  all 
around. 

"And  do  you  know  where  your  brother  is  at  the 
present  time?"  asked  the  magistrate. 

"  I  do  not.  I  have  never  seen  him  since  I  closed  this 
door." 

"I  can  testify  to  that,  for  we've  been  between  ye 
ever  since,"  said  the  constable. 

"Where  does  he  think  to  fly  to?  What  is  his  occupa- 
tion?" 

"He's  a  watch-  and  clock-maker,  sir." 
'A  said 'a  was  a  wheelwright  —  a  wicked  rogue," 
said  the  constable. 

"The  wheels  o'  clocks  and  watches  he  meant,  no 
doubt,"  said  Shepherd  Fennel.  "I  thought  his  hands 
were  palish  for  's  trade." 


288  PLOT 

"Well,  it  appears  to  me  that  nothing  can  be  gained 
by  retaining  this  poor  man  in  custody,"  said  the  magis- 
trate; "your  business  lies  with  the  other  unquestion- 
ably." 

And  so  the  little  man  was  released  offhand;  but  he 
looked  nothing  the  less  sad  on  that  account,  it  being 
beyond  the  power  of  magistrate  or  constable  to  rase 
out  the  written  troubles  in  his  brain,  for  they  concerned 
another,  whom  he  regarded  with  more  solicitude  than 
himself.  When  this  was  done,  and  the  man  had  gone 
his  way,  the  night  was  found  to  be  so  far  advanced 
that  it  was  deemed  useless  to  renew  the  search  before 
the  next  morning. 

Next  day,  accordingly,  the  quest  for  the  clever  sheep' 
stealer  became  general  and  keen  —  to  all  appearance, 
at  least.  But  the  intended  punishment  was  cruelly 
disproportioned  to  the  transgression,  and  the  sympathy 
of  a  great  many  country  folk  in  that  district  was  strongly 
on  the  side  of  the  fugitive.  Moreover,  his  marvelous 
coolness  and  daring  under  the  unprecedented  circum- 
stances of  the  shepherd's  party  won  their  admiration. 
So  that  it  may  be  questioned  if  all  those  who  ostensibly 
made  themselves  so  busy  in  exploring  woods  and  fields 
and  lanes  were  quite  so  thorough  when  it  came  to  the 
private  examination  of  their  own  lofts  and  outhouses. 
Stories  were  afloat  of  a  mysterious  figure  being  occa- 
sionally seen  in  some  old  overgrown  trackway  or  other 
remote  from  turnpike  roads;  but  when  a  search  was  in- 
stituted in  any  of  these  suspected  quarters  nobody  was 
found.  Thus  the  days  and  weeks  passed  without  tidings. 

In  brief,  the  bass-voiced  man  of  the  chimney-corner 
was  never  recaptured.  Some  said  that  he  went  across 
the  sea,  others  that  he  did  not,  but  buried  himself  in 
the  depths  of  a  populous  city.   At  any  rate,  the  gentle- 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  289 

man  in  cinder  gray  never  did  his  morning's  work  at 
Casterbridge,  nor  met  anywhere  at  all  for  business  pur- 
poses the  comrade  with  whom  he  had  passed  an  hour  of 
relaxation  in  the  lonely  house  on  the  coomb. 

The  grass  has  long  been  green  on  the  graves  of  Shep- 
herd Fennel  and  his  frugal  wife;  the  guests  who  made 
up  the  christening-party  have  mainly  followed  their  en- 
tertainers to  the  tomb;  the  baby  in  whose  honour  they 
all  had  met  is  a  matron  in  the  sear  and  yellow  leaf;  but 
the  arrival  of  the  three  strangers  at  the  shepherd's 
that  night,  and  the  details  connected  therewith,  is  a 
story  as  well  known  as  ever  in  the  country  about  Higher 
Crowstairs. 


MARJORIE  DAWi 

BY  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

Marjorie  Daw  is  the  classic  example  of  the  "hoax-plot" 
type  of  narrative,  in  which  the  successive  details  lead  the 
reader  into  deeper  and  deeper  misconception  as  to  what  the 
denouement  is  to  be,  and,  at  the  very  end,  explode  a  climax 
entirely  unforeseen.  Structurally  this  type  of  plot  differs 
from  that  of  the  two  preceding  narratives  in  that  it  contains 
no  post-exposition.  Like  The  Black  Poodle  and  The  Three 
Strangers,  it  presents  preliminary  exposition,  —  in  this  case, 
the  events  that  give  origin  to  the  correspondence  between 
Edward  Delaney  and  his  friend  John  Flemming,  —  the  broken 
leg  and  the  consequent  change  of  summer  plans.  Then  fol- 
lows the  "exciting  force,"  which  sets  the  machinery  in  motion, 
—  the  innocent  suggestion  of  Dr.  Dillon  that  Delaney  pro- 
vide some  form  of  amusement  for  the  invalid  in  order  to  pre- 
vent his  becoming  a  victim  of  nerves.  The  various  stages  of 
the  rising  action  are  recorded  in  the  series  of  letters  that  pass 
between  the  friends,  constantly  increasing  in  emotional  ten- 
sion until  the  climax  suddenly  is  revealed  in  the  closing 
words. 

Narratives  of  this  type  may  be  graphically  represented 
thus:  — 


a 

where  a  indicates  the  preliminary  action;  6,  the  moment  of 
exciting  force;  c,  the  rising  action  of  increasing  tension;  and 

*  From  Aldrich's  Complete  Works.   Published  by  Houghton  Mifflin 
Compaoy. 


MARJORIE  DAW  291 

d,  the  terminal  climax.  The  difference  between  this  type 
and  that  of  The  Black  Poodle  will  appear  from  a  diagram 
of  the  latter:  — 


a 


in  which  the  climax  is  followed  by  a  more  or  less  extended 
conclusion,  (e),  wherein  justice  is  distributed  and  stray  plot 
strands  are  suitably  caught  up.  An  extended  instance  of  this 
process  may  be  found  at  the  close  of  The  Marble  Faun,  A  Tab 
oj  Two  Cities,  or  The  Newcomes. 


Dr.  Dillon  to  Edward  Delaney,  Esq.,  at  The 
Pines,  near  Rye,  N.H. 

August  8,  I87-. 
My  dear  Sir:  I  am  happy  to  assure  you  that  your 
anxiety  is  without  reason.  Flemming  will  be  confined 
to  the  sofa  for  three  or  four  weeks,  and  will  have  to  be 
careful  at  first  how  he  uses  his  leg.  A  fracture  of  this 
kind  is  always  a  tedious  affair.  Fortunately,  the  bone 
was  very  skillfully  set  by  the  surgeon  who  chanced  to 
be  in  the  drug-store  where  Flemming  was  brought  after 
his  fall,  and  I  apprehend  no  permanent  inconvenience 
from  the  accident.  Flemming  is  doing  perfectly  well 
physically;  but  I  must  confess  that  the  irritable  and 
morbid  state  of  mind  into  which  he  has  fallen  causes  me 
a  great  deal  of  uneasiness.  He  is  the  last  man  in  the 
world  who  ought  to  break  his  leg.  You  know  how  im- 
petuous our  friend  is  ordinarily,  what  a  soul  of  restless- 


292  PLOT 

ness  and  energy,  never  content  unless  he  is  rushing  at 
some  object,  like  a  sportive  bull  at  a  red  shawl;  but  ami- 
able withal.  He  is  no  longer  amiable.  His  temper  has 
become  something  frightful.  Miss  Fanny  Flemming 
came  up  from  Newport,  where  the  family  are  staying 
for  the  summer,  to  nurse  him;  but  he  packed  her  off 
the  next  morning  in  tears.  He  has  a  complete  set  of 
Balzac's  works,  twenty-seven  volumes,  piled  up  near 
his  sofa,  to  throw  at  Watkins  whenever  that  exemplary 
serving-man  appears  with  his  meals.  Yesterday  I  very 
innocently  brought  Flemming  a  small  basket  of  lemons. 
You  know  it  was  a  strip  of  lemon-peel  on  the  curbstone 
that  caused  our  friend's  mischance.  Well,  he  no  sooner 
set  his  eyes  upon  these  lemons  than  he  fell  into  such  a 
rage  as  I  cannot  adequately  describe.  This  is  only  one  of 
his  moods  and  the  least  distressing.  At  other  times  he 
sits  with  bowed  head  regarding  his  splintered  limb, 
silent,  sullen,  despairing.  When  this  fit  is  on  him  —  and 
it  sometimes  lasts  all  day  —  nothing  can  distract  his  mel- 
ancholy. He  refuses  to  eat,  does  not  even  read  the  news- 
papers; books,  except  as  projectiles  for  Watkins,  have 
no  charms  for  him.    His  state  is  truly  pitiable. 

Now,  if  he  were  a  poor  man,  with  a  family  depending 
on  his  daily  labor,  this  irritability  and  despondency 
would  be  natural  enough.  But  in  a  young  fellow  of 
twenty-four,  with  plenty  of  money  and  seemingly  not 
a  care  in  the  world,  the  thing  is  monstrous.  If  he  con- 
tinues to  give  way  to  his  vagaries  in  this  manner,  he  will 
end  in  bringing  on  an  inflammation  of  the  fibula.  It  was 
the  fibula  he  broke.  I  am  at  my  wits'  end  to  know  what 
to  prescribe  for  him.  I  have  antesthetics  and  lotions,  to 
make  people  sleep  and  to  soothe  pain ;  but  I ' ve  no  medi- 
cine that  will  make  a  man  have  a  little  common  sense. 
That  is  beyond  my  skill,  but  maybe  it  is  not  beyond 


MARJORIE  DAW  .     293 

yours.  You  are  Flemming's  intimate  friend,  his  fidus 
Achates.  Write  to  him,  write  to  him  frequently,  distract 
his  mind,  cheer  him  up,  and  prevent  him  from  becoming 
a  confirmed  case  of  melanchoHa.  Perhaps  he  has  some 
important  plans  disarranged  by  his  present  confine- 
ment. If  he  has,  you  will  know,  and  will  know  how  to 
advise  him  judiciously.  I  trust  your  father  finds  the 
change  beneficial?  I  am,  my  dear  sir,  with  great  respect, 
etc. 

II 

Edward  Del.\ney  to  John  Flemming,  West 
38th  Street,  New  York 

August  9,  — . 

My  dear  Jack  :  I  had  a  line  from  Dillon  this  morning, 
and  was  rejoiced  to  learn  that  your  hurt  is  not  so  bad 
as  reported.  Like  a  certain  personage,  you  are  not  so 
black  and  blue  as  you  are  painted.  Dillon  will  put  you 
on  your  pins  again  in  two  or  three  weeks,  if  you  will 
only  have  patience  and  follow  his  counsels.  Did  you  get 
my  note  of  last  Wednesday?  I  was  greatly  troubled 
when  I  heard  of  the  accident. 

I  can  imagine  how  tranquil  and  saintly  you  are  with 
your  leg  in  a  trough !  It  is  deuced  awkward,  to  be  sure, 
just  as  we  had  promised  ourselves  a  glorious  month 
together  at  the  seaside;  but  we  must  make  the  best  of 
it.  It  is  unfortunate  too,  that  my  father's  health  renders 
it  impossible  for  me  to  leave  him.  I  think  he  has  much 
improved;  the  sea  air  is  his  native  element;  but  he  still 
needs  my  arm  to  lean  upon  in  his  walks,  and  requires 
some  one  more  careful  than  a  servant  to  look  after  him. 
I  cannot  come  to  you,  dear  Jack,  but  I  have  hours  of 
unemployed  time  on  hand,  and  I  will  write  j'ou  a  whole 
post-office  full  of  letters  if  that  will  divert  you.  Heaven 


294  PLOT 

knows,  I  have  n't  anything  to  write  about.  It  is  n't  as 
if  we  were  living  at  one  of  the  beach  houses;  then  I  could 
do  you  some  character  studies,  and  fill  your  imagination 
with  groups  of  sea-goddesses,  with  their  (or  somebody 
else's)  raven  and  blond  manes  hanging  down  their 
shoulders.  You  should  have  Aphrodite  in  morning 
wrapper,  in  evening  costume,  and  in  her  prettiest  bath- 
ing-suit. But  we  are  far  from  all  that  here.  We  have 
rooms  in  a  farmhouse,  on  a  cross-road,  two  miles  from 
the  hotels,  and  lead  the  quietest  of  lives. 

I  wish  I  were  a  novelist.  This  old  house,  with  its 
sanded  floors  and  high  wainscots,  and  its  narrow  win- 
dows looking  out  upon  a  cluster  of  pines  that  turn  them- 
selves into  Jj^olian  harps  every  time  the  wind  blows, 
would  be  the  place  in  which  to  write  a  summer  romance. 
It  should  be  a  story  with  the  odors  of  the  forest  and  the 
breath  of  the  sea  in  it.  It  should  be  a  novel  like  one  of 
that  Russian  fellow's,  —  what's  his  name?  —  Tourgue- 
nieff,  Turguenef,  Turgenif,  Toorguniff,  Turgenjew, — 
nobody  knows  how  to  spell  him.  Yet  I  wonder  if  even 
a  Liza  or  an  Alexandra  Paulovna  could  stir  the  heart  of 
a  man  who  has  constant  twinges  in  his  leg.  I  wonder 
if  one  of  our  own  Yankee  girls  of  the  best  type,  haughty 
and  spirituelle,  would  be  of  any  comfort  to  you  in  your 
present  deplorable  condition.  If  I  thought  so,  I  would 
hasten  down  to  the  Surf  House  and  catch  one  for  you; 
or,  better  still,  I  would  find  you  one  over  the  way. 

Picture  to  yourself  a  large  white  house  just  across  the 
road,  nearly  opposite  our  cottage.  It  is  not  a  house,  but 
a  mansion,  built,  perhaps,  in  the  colonial  period,  with 
rambling  extensions,  and  gambrel  roof,  and  a  wide  piazza 
on  three  sides,  —  a  self-possessed,  high-bred  piece  of 
architecture,  with  its  nose  in  the  air.  It  stands  back 
from  the  road,  and  has  an  obsequious  retinue  of  fringed 


MARJORIE  DAW  295 

elms  and  oaks  and  weeping  willows.  Sometimes  in  the 
morning,  and  oftener  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun 
has  withdrawn  from  that  part  of  the  mansion,  a  young 
woman  appears  on  the  piazza  with  some  mysterious 
Penelope  web  of  embroidery  in  her  hand,  or  a  book. 
There  is  a  hammock  over  there,  —  of  pineapple  fiber, 
it  looks  from  here.  A  hammock  is  very  becoming  when 
one  is  eighteen,  and  has  golden  hair,  and  dark  eyes,  and 
an  emerald-colored  illusion  dress  looped  up  after  the 
fashion  of  a  Dresden  china  shepherdess,  and  is  chaussee 
like  a  belle  of  the  time  of  Louis  Quatorze.  All  this 
splendor  goes  into  that  hammock,  and  sways  there  like  a 
pond-lily  in  the  golden  afternoon.  The  window  of  my 
bedroom  looks  down  on  that  piazza,  —  and  so  do  I. 

But  enough  of  this  nonsense,  which  ill  becomes  a 
sedate  young  attorney  taking  his  vacation  with  an  in- 
valid father.  Drop  me  a  line,  dear  Jack,  and  tell  me  how 
you  really  are.  State  your  case.  Write  me  a  long,  quiet 
letter.  If  you  are  violent  or  abusive,  I  '11  take  the  law 
to  you. 

Ill 

John  Flemming  to  Edward  Delaney 

August  11,  — . 

Your  letter,  dear  Ned,  was  a  godsend.  Fancy  what 
a  fix  I  am  in,  —  I,  who  never  had  a  day's  sickness  since 
I  was  born.  My  left  leg  weighs  three  tons.  It  is  em- 
balmed in  spices  and  smothered  in  layers  of  fine  linen, 
like  a  mummy.  I  can't  move.  I  have  n't  moved  for 
five  thousand  years.    I  'm  of  the  time  of  Pharaoh. 

I  lie  from  morning  till  night  on  a  lounge,  staring  into 
the  hot  street.  Everybody  is  out  of  towTi  enjoying 
himself.  The  brownstone-front  houses  across  the  streel 
resemble  a  row  of  particularly  ugly  coffins  set  up  on 


296  PLOT 

end.  A  green  mould  is  settling  on  the  names  of  the  de- 
ceased, carved  on  the  silver  doorplates.  Sardonic  spi- 
ders have  sewed  up  the  keyholes.  All  is  silence  and 
dust  and  desolation.  —  I  interrupt  this  a  moment,  to 
take  a  shy  at  Watkins  with  the  second  volume  of 
Cesar  Birotteau.  Missed  him!  I  think  I  could  bring 
him  down  with  a  copy  of  Sainte-Beuve  or  the  Diction- 
naire  Universel,  if  I  had  it.  These  small  Balzac  books 
somehow  don't  quite  fit  my  hand;  but  I  shall  fetch 
him  yet.  I  've  an  idea  Watkins  is  tapping  the  old  gentle- 
man's Chateau  Yquem.  Duplicate  key  of  the  wine-cel- 
lar. Hibernian  swarries  in  the  front  basement.  Young 
Cheops  upstairs,  snug  in  his  cerements.  Watkins  glides 
into  my  chamber,  with  that  colorless,  hypocritical  face 
of  his  drawn  out  long  like  an  accordion;  but  I  know  he 
grins  all  the  way  downstairs,  and  is  glad  I  have  broken 
my  leg.  Was  not  my  evil  star  in  the  very  zenith  when  I 
ran  up  to  town  to  attend  that  dinner  at  Delmonico's? 
I  did  n't  come  up  altogether  for  that.  It  was  partly  to 
buy  Frank  Livingstone's  roan  mare  Margot.  And  now 
I  shall  not  be  able  to  sit  in  the  saddle  these  two  months. 
I  '11  send  the  mare  down  to  you  at  The  Pines,  —  is  that 
the  name  of  the  place.'^ 

Old  Dillon  fancies  that  I  have  something  on  my  mind. 
He  drives  me  wild  with  lemons.  Lemons  for  a  mind 
diseased!  Nosense.  I  am  only  as  restless  as  the  devil 
under  this  confinement,  —  a  thing  I  'm  not  used  to. 
Take  a  man  who  has  never  had  so  much  as  a  headache 
or  a  toothache  in  his  life,  strap  one  of  his  legs  in  a  sec- 
tion of  water-spout,  keep  him  in  a  room  in  the  city  for 
weeks,  with  the  hot  weather  turned  on,  and  then  ex- 
pect him  to  smile  and  purr  and  be  happy!  It  is  prepos- 
terous.   I  can't  be  cheerful  or  calm. 

Your  letter  is  the  first  consoling  thing  I  have  had 


MARJORIE  DAW  297 

since  my  disaster,  ten  days  ago.  It  really  cheered  me  up 
for  half  an  hour.  Send  me  a  screed,  Ned,  as  often  as  you 
can,  if  you  love  me.  Anything  will  do.  Write  me  more 
about  that  little  girl  in  the  hammock.  That  was  very 
pretty,  all  that  about  the  Dresden  china  shejjherdess  and 
the  pond-lily;  the  imagery  a  little  mixed,  perhaps,  but 
very  pretty.  I  did  n't  suppose  you  had  so  much  senti- 
mental furniture  in  your  upper  story.  It  shows  how  one 
may  be  familiar  for  years  with  the  reception-room  of  his 
neighbor,  and  never  suspect  what  is  directly  under  his 
mansard.  I  supposed  your  loft  stuffed  with  dry  legal 
parchments,  mortgages,  and  affidavits;  you  take  down 
a  package  of  manuscripts,  and  lo !  there  are  lyrics  and 
sonnets  and  canzonettas.  You  really  have  a  graphic  de- 
scriptive touch,  Edward  Delaney,  and  I  suspect  you  of 
anonymous  love-tales  in  the  magazines. 

I  shall  be  a  bear  until  I  hear  from  you  again.  Tell  me 
all  about  your  pretty  inconnue  across  the  road.  What 
is  her  name?  Who  is  she?  Who's  her  father?  Where's 
her  mother?  Who's  her  lover?  You  cannot  imagine  how 
this  will  occupy  me.  The  more  trifling  the  better.  My 
imprisonment  has  weakened  me  intellectually  to  such 
a  degree  that  I  find  your  epistolary  gifts  quite  consider- 
able. I  am  passing  into  my  second  childhood.  In  a  week 
or  two  I  shall  take  to  India-rubber  rings  and  prongs  of 
coral.  A  silver  cup,  with  an  appropriate  inscription, 
would  be  a  delicate  attention  on  your  part.  In  the  mean 
time,  write! 

IV 

Edward  Delaney  to  John  Flemminq 

August  12,  — . 
The  sick  pasha  shall  be  amused.    Bismillah!  he  wills 
it  so.    If  the  story-teller  becomes  prolix  and  tedious,  — 


298  PLOT 

the  bowstring  and  the  sack,  and  two  Nubians  to  drop 
him  into  the  Piscataqua!  But,  truly.  Jack,  I  have  a 
hard  task.  There  is  literally  nothing  here,  —  except  the 
little  girl  over  the  way.  She  is  swinging  in  the  ham- 
mock at  this  moment.  It  is  to  me  compensation  for 
many  of  the  ills  of  life  to  see  her  now  and  then  put  out 
a  small  kid  boot,  which  fits  like  a  glove,  and  set  herself 
going.  Who  is  she,  and  what  is  her  name?  Her  name  is 
Daw,  Only  daughter  of  Mr.  Richard  W.  Daw,  ex-colonel 
and  banker.  Mother  dead.  One  brother  at  Harvard, 
elder  brother  killed  at  the  battle  of  Fair  Oaks,  nine  years 
ago.  Old,  rich  family,  the  Daws.  This  is  the  homestead, 
where  father  and  daughter  pass  eight  months  of  the 
twelve;  the  rest  of  the  year  in  Baltimore  and  Washing- 
ton. The  New  England  winter  too  many  for  the  old 
gentleman.  The  daughter  is  called  Marjorie,  —  Mar- 
jorie  Daw.  Sounds  odd  at  first,  does  n't  it?  But  after 
you  say  it  over  to  yourself  half  a  dozen  times,  you  like 
it.  There's  a  pleasing  quaintness  to  it,  something  prim 
and  violet-like.  Must  be  a  nice  sort  of  girl  to  be  called 
Marjorie  Daw. 

I  had  mine  host  of  The  Pines  in  the  witness-box  last 
night,  and  drew  the  foregoing  testimony  from  him.  He 
has  charge  of  Mr.  Daw's  vegetable-garden,  and  has 
knowTi  the  family  these  thirty  years.  Of  course  I  shall 
make  the  acquaintance  of  my  neighbors  before  many 
days.  It  will  be  next  to  impossible  for  me  not  to  meet 
Mr.  Daw  or  Miss  Daw  in  some  of  my  walks.  The  young 
lady  has  a  favorite  path  to  the  sea-beach,  I  shall  inter- 
cept her  some  morning,  and  touch  my  hat  to  her.  Then 
the  princess  will  bend  her  fair  head  to  me  with  courteous 
surjjrise  not  unmixed  with  haughtiness.  Will  snub  me, 
in  fact.  All  this  for  thy  sake,  O  Pasha  of  the  Snapt 
Axle-tree! .  .  .  How  oddly  things  fall  out!   Ten  minutes 


MARJORIE  DAW  299 

ago  I  was  called  down  to  the  parlor,  —  j^ou  know  the 
kind  of  parlors  in  farmhouses  on  the  coast,  a  sort  of  am- 
phibious parlor,  with  seashells  on  the  mantelpiece  and 
spruce  branches  in  the  chimney-place,  —  where  I  found 
my  father  and  Mr.  Daw  doing  the  antique  polite  to  each 
other.  He  had  come  to  pay  his  respects  to  his  new  neigh- 
bors. Mr.  Daw  is  a  tall,  slim,  gentleman  of  about  fifty- 
five,  with  a  florid  face  and  snow-white  mustache  and  side- 
whiskers.  Looks  like  Mr,  Dombey,  or  as  Mr.  Dombey 
would  have  looked  if  he  had  served  a  few  years  in  the 
British  Army.  Mr.  Daw  was  a  colonel  in  the  late  war, 
commanding  the  regiment  in  which  his  son  was  a  lieu- 
tenant. Plucky  old  boy,  backbone  of  New  Hampshire 
granite.  Before  taking  his  leave,  the  colonel  delivered 
himself  of  an  invitation  as  if  he  were  issuing  a  general 
order.  Miss  Daw  has  a  few  friends  coming,  at  4  p.m., 
to  play  croquet  on  the  lawn  (parade-ground)  and  have 
tea  (cold  rations)  on  the  piazza.  Will  we  honor  them 
with  our  company?  (or  be  sent  to  the  guard-house.) 
My  father  declines  on  the  plea  of  ill-health.  My  father's 
son  bows  with  as  much  suavity  as  he  knows,  and  ac- 
cepts. 

In  my  next  I  shall  have  something  to  tell  you.  I  shall 
have  seen  the  little  beauty  face  to  face.  I  have  a  pre- 
sentiment, Jack,  that  this  Daw  is  a  rara  avis!  Keep  up 
your  spirits,  my  boy,  until  I  write  you  another  letter, 
—  and  send  me  along  word  how 's  your  leg. 

V 
Edward  Delaney  to  John  Flemming 

August  13,  — . 
The  party,  my  dear  Jack,  was  as  dreary  as  possible. 
A  lieutenant  of  the  navy,  the  rector  of  the  Episcopal 


300  PLOT 

Church  at  Stillwater,  and  a  society  swell  from  Nahant. 
The  lieutenant  looked  as  if  he  had  swallowed  a  couple  of 
his  buttons,  and  found  the  bullion  rather  indigestible; 
the  rector  was  a  pensive  youth,  of  the  daffydowndilly 
sort;  and  the  swell  from  Nahant  was  a  very  weak  tidal 
wave  indeed.  The  women  were  much  better,  as  they 
always  are;  the  two  Miss  Kingsbury s  of  Philadelphia, 
staying  at  the  Seashell  House,  two  bright  and  engaging 
girls.   But  Marjorie  Daw! 

The  company  broke  up  soon  after  tea,  and  I  remained 
to  smoke  a  cigar  with  the  colonel  on  the  piazza.  It  was 
like  seeing  a  picture  to  see  Miss  Marjorie  hovering 
around  the  old  soldier,  and  doing  a  hundred  gracious 
little  things  for  him.  She  brought  the  cigars  and  lighted 
the  tapers  with  her  own  delicate  fingers,  in  the  most  en- 
chanting fashion.  As  we  sat  there,  she  came  and  went  in 
the  summer  twilight,  and  seemed,  with  her  white  dress 
and  pale-gold  hair,  like  some  lovely  phantom  that  had 
sprung  into  existence  out  of  the  smoke-wreaths.  If  she 
I  had  melted  into  air,  like  the  statue  of  Galatea  in  the 
play,  I  should  have  been  more  sorry  than  surprised. 

It  was  easy  to  perceive  that  the  old  colonel  worshiped 
her,  and  she  him.  I  think  the  relation  between  an  elderly 
father  and  a  daughter  just  blooming  into  womanhood 
the  most  beautiful  possible.  There  is  in  it  a  subtile  sen- 
timent that  cannot  exist  in  the  case  of  mother  and  daugh- 
ter, or  that  of  son  and  mother.  But  this  is  getting  into 
deep  water. 

I  sat  with  the  Daws  until  half -past  ten,  and  saw  the 
moon  rise  on  the  sea.  The  ocean,  that  had  stretched 
motionless  and  black  against  the  horizon,  was  changed 
by  magic  into  a  broken  field  of  glittering  ice,  interspersed 
with  marvelous  silvery  fjords.  In  the  far  distance  the 
Isles  of  Shoals  loomed  up  like  a  group  of  huge  bergs 


MARJOJIIE  DAW  301 

drifting  down  on  us.  The  Polar  Regions  in  a  June  thaw! 
It  was  exceedingly  fine.  What  did  we  talk  about?  We 
talked  about  the  weather  —  and  you!  The  weather  has 
been  disagreeable  for  several  days  past,  —  and  so  have 
you.  I  glided  from  one  topic  to  the  other  very  naturally. 
I  told  my  friends  of  your  accident;  how  it  had  frustrated 
all  our  summer  plans,  and  what  our  plans  were.  I  played 
quite  a  spirited  solo  on  the  fibula.  Then  I  described 
you;  or,  rather,  I  didn't.  I  spoke  of  your  amiability, 
of  your  patience  under  this  severe  affliction;  of  your 
touching  gratitude  when  Dillon  brings  you  little  pres- 
ents of  fruit;  of  your  tenderness  to  your  sister  Fanny, 
whom  you  would  not  allow  to  stay  in  town  to  nurse  you, 
and  how  you  heroically  sent  her  back  to  Newport,  pre- 
ferring to  remain  alone  with  Mary,  the  cook,  and  your 
man  Watkins,  to  whom,  by  the  way,  you  were  devotedly 
attached.  If  you  had  been  there.  Jack,  you  would  n't 
have  known  yourself.  I  should  have  excelled  as  a  crimi- 
nal laA^yer,  if  I  had  not  turned  my  attention  to  a  differ- 
ent branch  of  jurisprudence. 

Miss  Marjorie  asked  all  manner  of  leading  questions 
concerning  you.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  then,  but  it 
struck  me  forcibly  afterwards,  that  she  evinced  a  singu- 
lar interest  in  the  conversation.  When  I  got  back  to 
my  room,  I  recalled  how  eagerly  she  leaned  forward,  with 
her  full,  snowy  throat  in  strong  moonlight,  listening  to 
what  I  said.    Positively,  I  think  I  made  her  like  you! 

Miss  Daw  is  a  girl  whom  you  would  like  immensely, 
I  can  tell  you  that.  A  beauty  without  affectation,  a  high 
and  tender  nature,  —  if  one  can  read  the  soul  in  the  face. 
And  the  old  colonel  is  a  noble  character,  too. 

I  am  glad  the  Daws  are  such  pleasant  people.  The 
Pines  is  an  isolated  spot,  and  my  resources  are  few. 
I  fear  I  should  have  found  life  here  somewhat  monot- 


302  PLOT 

onous  before  long,  with  no  other  society  than  that  of 
my  excellent  sire.  It  is  true,  I  might  have  made  a  target 
of  the  defenseless  invalid;  but  I  have  n't  a  taste  for 
artillery,  moi. 

VI 

John  Flemming  to  Edward  Delaney 

August  17,  — . 

For  a  man  who  has  n't  a  taste  for  artillery,  it  occurs 
to  me,  my  friend,  you  are  keeping  up  a  pretty  lively 
fire  on  my  inner  works.  But  go  on.  Cynicism  is  a  small 
brass  field-piece  that  eventually  bursts  and  kills  the 
artilleryman. 

You  may  abuse  me  as  much  as  you  like,  and  I  '11  not 
complain;  for  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  without 
your  letters.  They  are  curing  me.  I  have  n't  hurled  any- 
thing at  Watkins  since  last  Sunday,  partly  because  I 
have  grown  more  amiable  under  your  teaching,  and  partly 
because  Watkins  captured  my  ammunition  one  night, 
and  carried  it  off  to  the  library.  He  is  rapidly  losing  the 
habit  he  had  acquired  of  dodging  whenever  I  rub  my  ear, 
or  make  any  slight  motion  with  my  right  arm.  He  is 
still  suggestive  of  the  wine-cellar,  however.  You  may 
break,  you  may  shatter  Watkins,  if  you  will,  but  the 
scent  of  the  Roederer  will  hang  round  him  still. 

Ned,  that  Miss  Daw  must  be  a  charming  person.  I 
should  certainly  like  her.  I  like  her  already.  When  you 
spoke  in  your  first  letter  of  seeing  a  young  girl  swing- 
ing in  a  hammock  under  your  chamber  window,  I  was 
somehow  strangely  drawn  to  her.  I  cannot  account 
for  it  in  the  least.  What  you  have  subsequently  written 
of  Miss  Daw  has  strengthened  the  impression.  You 
seem  to  be  describing  a  woman  I  have  known  in  some 
previous  state  of  existence,  or  dreamed  of  in  this.  Upon 


MARJORIE   DAW  303 

my  word,  if  you  were  to  send  me  her  photograph,  I 
believe  I  should  recognize  her  at  a  glance.  Her  manner, 
that  listening  attitude,  her  traits  of  character,  as  you 
indicate  them,  the  light  hair  and  the  dark  eyes,  —  they 
are  all  familiar  things  to  me.  Asked  a  lot  of  questions, 
did  she.''   Curious  about  me?   That  is  strange. 

You  would  laugh  in  your  sleeve,  you  wretched  old 
cynic,  if  you  knew  how  I  lie  awake  nights,  with  my  gas 
turned  down  to  a  star,  thinking  of  The  Pines  and  the 
house  across  the  road.  How  cool  it  must  be  dowTi  there! 
I  long  for  the  salt  smell  in  the  air.  I  picture  the  colonel 
smoking  his  cheroot  on  the  piazza.  I  send  you  and  Miss 
Daw  off  on  afternoon  rambles  along  the  beach.  Some- 
times I  let  you  stroll  with  her  under  the  elms  in  the 
moonlight,  for  you  are  great  friends  by  this  time,  I  take 
it,  and  see  each  other  every  day.  I  know  your  ways  and 
your  manners !  Then  I  fall  into  a  truculent  mood,  and 
would  like  to  destroy  somebody.  Have  you  noticed  any- 
thing in  the  shape  of  a  lover  hanging  around  the  colonial 
Lares  and  Penates.'*  Does  that  lieutenant  of  the  horse- 
marines  or  that  young  Stillwater  parson  visit  the  house 
much?  Not  that  I  am  pining  for  news  of  them,  but  any 
gossip  of  the  kind  would  be  in  order.  I  wonder,  Ned,  you 
don't  fall  in  love  with  Miss  Daw.  I  am  ripe  to  do  it 
myself.  Speaking  of  photographs,  could  n't  you  manage 
to  slip  one  of  her  cartes-de-visite  from  her  album,  —  she 
must  have  an  album,  you  know,  —  and  send  it  to  me? 
I  will  return  it  before  it  could  be  missed.  That's  a  good 
fellow!  Did  the  mare  arrive  safe  and  sound?  It  will 
be  a  capital  animal  this  autumn  for  Central  Park. 

O  —  my  leg?  I  forgot  about  my  leg.   It's  better. 


304  PLOT 

VII 
Edward  Delaney  to  John  Flemming 

August  20,  — . 

You  are  correct  in  your  surmises.  I  am  on  the  most 
friendly  terms  with  our  neighbors.  The  colonel  and  my 
father  smoke  their  afternoon  cigar  together  in  our  sitting- 
room  or  on  the  piazza  opposite,  and  I  pass  an  hour  or 
two  of  the  day  or  the  evening  with  the  daughter.  I  am 
more  and  more  struck  by  the  beauty,  modesty,  and 
intelligence  of  Miss  Daw. 

You  ask  me  why  I  do  not  fall  in  love  with  her.  I  will 
be  frank,  Jack:  I  have  thought  of  that.  She  is  young, 
rich,  accomplished,  uniting  in  herself  more  attractions, 
mental  and  personal,  than  I  can  recall  in  any  girl  of  my 
acquaintance;  but  she  lacks  the  something  that  would 
be  necessary  to  inspire  in  me  that  kind  of  interest. 
Possessing  this  unknown  quantity,  a  woman  neither 
beautiful  nor  wealthy  nor  very  young  could  bring  me 
to  her  feet.  But  not  Miss  Daw.  If  we  were  shipwrecked 
together  on  an  uninhabited  island,  —  let  me  suggest  a 
tropical  island,  for  it  costs  no  more  to  be  picturesque,  — 
I  would  build  her  a  bamboo  hut,  I  would  fetch  her  bread- 
fruit and  cocoanuts,  I  would  fry  yams  for  her,  I  would 
lure  the  ingenuous  turtle  and  make  her  nourishing  soups, 
but  I  would  n't  make  love  to  her,  —  not  under  eighteen 
months.  I  would  like  to  have  her  for  a  sister,  that  I 
might  shield  her  and  counsel  her,  and  spend  half  my 
income  on  thread-laces  and  camel's-hair  shawls.  (We  are 
off  the  island  now.)  If  such  were  not  my  feeling,  there 
would  still  be  an  ob.^acle  to  my  loving  Miss  Daw. 
A  greater  misfortune  could  scarcely  befall  me  than  to 
love  her.  Flemming,  I  am  about  to  make  a  revelation  that 


MARJORIE  DAW  305 

will  astonish  you.  I  may  be  all  wrong  in  my  premises 
and  consequently  in  my  conclusions;  but  you  shall 
judge. 

That  night  when  I  returned  to  my  room  after  the 
croquet  party  at  the  Daws',  and  was  thinking  over  the 
trivial  events  of  the  evening,  I  was  suddenly  impressed 
by  the  air  of  eager  attention  with  which  Miss  Daw  had 
followed  my  account  of  your  accident.  I  think  I  men- 
tioned this  to  you.  Well,  the  next  morning,  as  I  went 
to  mail  my  letter,  I  overtook  Miss  Daw  on  the  road 
to  Rye,  where  the  post-ofBce  is,  and  accompanied  her 
thither  and  back,  an  hour's  walk.  The  conversation 
again  turned  on  you,  and  again  I  remarked  that  inex- 
plicable look  of  interest  which  had  lighted  up  her  face 
the  previous  evening.  Since  then,  I  have  seen  Miss 
Daw  perhaps  ten  times,  perhaps  oftener,  and  on  each 
occasion  I  found  that  when  I  was  not  speaking  of  you,  or 
your  sister,  or  some  person  or  place  associated  with  you, 
I  was  not  holding  her  attention.  She  would  be  absent- 
minded,  her  eyes  would  wander  away  from  me  to  the 
sea,  or  to  some  distant  object  in  the  landscape;  her  fin- 
gers would  play  with  the  leaves  of  a  book  in  a  way  that 
convinced  me  she  was  not  listening.  At  these  moments 
if  I  abruptly  changed  the  theme,  —  I  did  it  several 
times  as  an  experiment,  —  and  dropped  some  remark 
about  my  friend  Flemming,  then  the  somber  blue  eyes 
would  come  back  to  me  instantly. 

Now,  is  not  this  the  oddest  thing  in  the  world?  No, 
not  the  oddest.  The  effect  which  you  tell  me  was  pro- 
duced on  you  by  my  casual  mention  of  an  unknown  girl 
swinging  in  a  hammock  is  certainly  as  strange.  You  can 
conjecture  how  that  passage  in  your  letter  of  Friday 
startled  me.  Is  it  possible,  then,  that  two  people  who  have 
never  met,  and  who  are  hundreds  of  miles  apart,  can 


306  PLOT 

exert  a  magnetic  influence  on  each  other?  I  have  read 
of  such  psychological  phenomena,  but  never  credited 
them.  I  leave  the  solution  of  the  problem  to  you.  As  for 
myself,  all  other  things  being  favorable,  it  would  be  im- 
possible for  me  to  fall  in  love  with  a  woman  who  listens 
to  me  only  when  I  am  talking  of  my  friend! 

I  am  not  aware  that  any  one  is  paying  marked  at- 
tention to  my  fair  neighbor.  The  lieutenant  of  the  navy 
—  he  is  stationed  at  Rivermouth  —  sometimes  drops  in 
of  an  evening,  and  sometimes  the  rector  from  Stillwater; 
the  lieutenant  the  oftener.  He  was  there  last  night.  I 
would  not  be  surprised  if  he  had  an  eye  to  the  heiress; 
but  he  is  not  formidable.  Mistress  Daw  carries  a  neat 
little  spear  of  irony,  and  the  honest  lieutenant  seems  to 
have  a  particular  facility  for  impaling  himself  on  the 
point  of  it.  He  is  not  dangerous,  I  should  say;  though  I 
have  known  a  woman  to  satirize  a  man  for  years,  and 
marry  him  after  all.  Decidedly,  the  lowly  rector  is 
not  dangerous;  yet,  again,  who  has  not  seen  Cloth  of 
Frieze  victorious  in  the  lists  where  Cloth  of  Gold  went 
dowiv? 

As  to  the  photograph.  There  is  an  exquisite  ivory- 
lype  of  Marjorie,  in  passe-partout,  on  the  drawing- 
room  mantelpiece.  It  would  be  missed  at  once,  if  taken. 
I  would  do  anything  reasonable  for  you,  Jack;  but  I've 
no  burning  desire  to  be  hauled  up  before  the  local  justice 
of  the  peace,  on  a  charge  of  petty  larceny. 

P.S.  —  Enclosed  is  a  spray  of  mignonette,  which  I  ad- 
vise you  to  treat  tenderly.  Yes,  we  talked  of  you  again 
last  night,  as  usual.  It  is  becoming  a  little  dreary  for 
me. 


MARJORIE  DAW  307 

VIII 

Edward  Delaney  to  John  Flemming 

August  22,  — . 

Your  letter  in  reply  to  my  last  has  occupied  my 
thoughts  all  the  morning.  I  do  not  know  what  to  think. 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  seriously  half  in  love 
with  a  woman  whom  you  have  never  seen,  —  with  a 
shadow,  a  chimera?  for  what  else  can  Miss  Daw  be  to 
you?  I  do  not  understand  it  at  all.  I  understand  neither 
you  nor  her.  You  are  a  couple  of  ethereal  beings  moving 
in  finer  air  than  I  can  breathe  with  my  commonplace 
lungs.  Such  delicacy  of  sentiment  is  something  I  admire 
without  comprehending.  I  am  bewildered.  I  am  of  the 
earth  earthy,  and  I  find  myself  in  the  incongruous  posi- 
tion of  having  to  do  with  mere  souls,  with  natures  so 
finely  tempered  that  I  run  some  risk  of  shattering  them 
in  my  awkwardness.  I  am  as  Caliban  among  the 
spirits ! 

Reflecting  on  your  letter,  I  am  not  sure  it  is  wise  in 
me  to  continue  this  correspondence.  But  no.  Jack;  I 
do  wrong  to  doubt  the  good  sense  that  forms  the  basis 
of  your  character.  You  are  deeply  interested  in  Miss 
Daw;  you  feel  that  she  is  a  person  whom  you  may 
perhaps  greatly  admire  when  you  know  her:  at  the  same 
time  you  bear  in  mind  that  the  chances  are  ten  to  five 
that,  when  you  do  come  to  know  her,  she  will  fall  far 
short  of  your  ideal,  and  you  will  not  care  for  her  in  the 
least.  Look  at  it  in  this  sensible  light,  and  I  will  hold 
back  nothing  from  you. 

Yesterday  afternoon  my  father  and  myself  rode  over 
to  Rivermouth  with  the  Daws.  A  hea\y  rain  in  the 
morning  had  cooled  the  atmosphere  and  laid  the  dust. 


308  PLOT 

To  Rivermouth  is  a  drive  of  eight  miles,  along  a  winding 
road  lined  all  the  way  with  wild  barberry-bushes.  I 
never  saw  anything  more  brilliant  than  these  bushes, 
the  green  of  the  foliage  and  the  pink  of  the  coral  berries 
intensified  by  the  rain.  The  colonel  drove,  with  my  father 
in  front,  Miss  Daw  and  I  on  the  back  seat.  I  resolved 
that  for  the  first  five  miles  your  name  should  not  pass  my 
lips.  I  was  amused  by  the  artful  attempts  she  made,  at 
the  start,  to  break  through  my  reticence.  Then  a  silence 
fell  upon  her;  and  then  she  became  suddenly  gay.  That 
keenness  which  I  enjoyed  so  much  when  it  was  exer- 
cised on  the  lieutenant  was  not  so  satisfactory  directed 
against  myself.  Miss  Daw  has  great  sweetness  of  dis- 
position, but  she  can  be  disagreeable.  She  is  like  the 
young  lady  in  the  rhyme,  with  the  curl  on  her  forehead, — • 

"When  she  is  good. 
She  is  very,  very  good. 
And  when  she  is  bad,  she  is  horrid!" 

I  kept  to  my  resolution,  however;  but  on  the  return  home 
I  relented,  and  talked  of  your  mare!  Miss  Daw  is  going 
to  try  a  side-saddle  on  Margot  some  morning.  The 
animal  is  a  trifle  too  light  for  my  weight.  By  the  by, 
I  nearly  forgot  to  say  Miss  Daw  sat  for  a  picture  yes- 
terday to  a  Rivermouth  artist.  If  the  negative  turns 
out  well,  I  am  to  have  a  copy.  So  our  ends  will  be  accom- 
plished without  crime.  I  wish,  though,  I  could  send  you 
the  ivory  type  in  the  drawing-room;  it  is  cleverly  colored, 
and  would  give  you  an  idea  of  her  hair  and  eyes,  which 
of  course  the  other  will  not. 

No,  Jack,  the  spray  of  mignonette  did  not  come  from 
me.  A  man  of  twenty-eight  does  n't  enclose  flowers  in 
his  letters  —  to  another  man.  But  don't  attach  too  much 
significance  to  the  circumstance.  She  gives  sprays  of 
mignonette  to  the  rector,  sprays  to  the  lieutenant.  She 


MAIUORIE  DAW  309 

has  even  given  a  rose  from  her  bosom  to  your  slave.  It 
is  her  jocund  nature  to  scatter  flowers,  like  Spring. 

If  my  letters  sometimes  read  disjointedly,  you  must 
understand  that  I  never  finish  one  at  a  sitting,  but  write 
at  intervals,  when  the  mood  is  on  me. 

The  mood  is  not  on  me  now. 

IX 

Edward  Delaney  to  John  Flemming 

August  23,  — . 

I  have  just  returned  from  the  strangest  interview 
with  Marjorie.  She  has  all  but  confessed  to  me  her  in- 
terest in  you.  But  with  what  modesty  and  dignity! 
Her  words  elude  my  pen  as  I  attempt  to  put  them  on 
paper;  and,  indeed,  it  was  not  so  much  what  she  said 
as  her  manner;  and  that  I  cannot  reproduce.  Perhaps 
it  was  of  a  piece  with  the  strangeness  of  this  whole 
business,  that  she  should  tacitly  acknowledge  to  a  third 
party  the  love  she  feels  for  a  man  she  has  never  beheld  I 
But  I  have  lost,  through  your  aid,  the  faculty  of  being 
surprised.  I  accept  things  as  people  do  in  dreams.  Now 
that  I  am  again  in  my  room,  it  all  appears  like  an 
illusion,  —  the  black  masses  of  Rembrandtish  shadow 
under  the  trees,  the  fire-flies  whirling  in  Pyrrhic  dances 
among  the  shrubbery,  the  sea  over  there,  Marjorie  sit- 
ting on  the  hammock! 

It  is  past  midnight,  and  I  am  too  sleepy  to  write  more. 

Thursday  Morning. 

My  father  has  suddenly  taken  it  into  his  head  to 

spend  a  few  days  at  the  Shoals.    In  the  mean  while  you 

will  not  hear  from  me.    I  see  INIarjorie  walking  in  the 

garden  with  the  colonel.    I  wish  I  could  speak  to  her 


310  PLOT 

alone,  but  shall  probably  not  have  an  opportunity  be- 
fore we  leave. 

X 

Edward  Delaney  to  John  Flemming 

August  28,  — . 

You  were  passing  into  your  second  childhood,  were 
you?  Your  intellect  was  so  reduced  that  my  epistolary 
gifts  seemed  quite  considerable  to  you,  did  they?  I  rise 
superior  to  the  sarcasm  in  your  favor  of  the  11th  in- 
stant, when  T  notice  that  five  days'  silence  on  my  part 
is  sufficient  to  throw  you  into  the  depths  of  despon- 
dency. 

We  returned  only  this  mori^ing  from  Appledore, 
that  enchanted  island,  —  at  four  dollars  per  day.  I 
find  on  my  desk  three  letters  from  you !  Evidently  there 
is  no  lingering  doubt  in  your  mind  as  to  the  pleasure  I 
derive  from  your  correspondence.  These  letters  are 
undated,  but  in  what  I  take  to  be  the  latest  are  two  pas- 
sages that  require  my  consideration.  You  will  pardon 
my  candor,  dear  Flemming,  but  the  conviction  forces 
itself  upon  me  that  as  your  leg  grows  stronger  your 
head  becomes  weaker.  You  ask  my  advice  on  a  certain 
point.  I  will  give  it.  In  my  opinion  you  could  do  nothing 
more  unwise  than  to  address  a  note  to  Miss  Daw, 
thanking  her  for  the  flower.  It  would,  I  am  sure,  offend 
her  delicacy  beyond  pardon.  She  knows  you  only 
through  me;  you  are  to  her  an  abstraction,  a  figure  in  a 
dream,  —  a  dream  from  which  the  faintest  shock  would 
awaken  her.  Of  course,  if  you  enclose  a  note  to  me  and 
insist  on  its  delivery,  I  shall  deliver  it;  but  I  advise  you 
not  to  do  so. 

You  say  you  are  able,  with  the  aid  of  a  cane,  to  walk 
about  your  chamber,  and  that  you  purpose  to  come  to 


MARJORIE  DAW  311 

The  Pines  the  instant  Dillon  thinks  you  strong  enough 
to  stand  the  journey.  Again  I  advise  you  not  to.  Do  you 
not  see  that,  every  hour  you  remain  away,  Marjorie's 
glamour  deepens,  and  your  influence  over  her  increases? 
You  will  ruin  everything  by  precipitancy.  Wait  until 
you  are  entirely  recovered;  in  any  case,  do  not  come 
without  giving  me  w^arning.  I  fear  the  effect  of  your 
abrupt  advent  here  —  under  the  circumstances. 

Miss  Daw  was  evidently  glad  to  see  us  back  again, 
and  gave  me  both  hands  in  the  frankest  way.  She 
stopped  at  the  door  a  moment,  this  afternoon,  in  the 
carriage;  she  had  been  over  to  Rivermouth  for  her  pic- 
tures. Unluckily  the  photographer  had  spilt  some  acid 
on  the  plate,  and  she  was  obliged  to  give  him  another 
sitting.  I  have  an  intuition  that  something  is  troubling 
Marjorie.  She  had  an  abstracted  air  not  usual  with  her. 
However,  it  may  be  only  my  fancy.  ...  I  end  this, 
leaving  several  things  unsaid,  to  accompany  my  father 
on  one  of  those  long  walks  which  are  now  his  chief  medi- 
cine, —  and  mine! 

XI 

Edward  Det^ney  to  John  Flemming 

August  29,  — . 
I  write  in  great  haste  to  tell  you  what  has  taken  place 
here  since  my  letter  of  last  night.  I  am  in  the  utmost 
perplexity.  Only  one  thing  is  plain,  —  you  must  not 
dream  of  coming  to  The  Pines.  Marjorie  has  told  her 
father  everything!  I  saw  her  for  a  few  minutes,  an  hour 
ago,  in  the  garden;  and,  as  near  as  I  could  gather  from 
her  confused  statement,  the  facts  are  these :  Lieutenant 
Bradly  —  that's  the  naval  officer  stationed  at  River- 
mouth  —  has  been  paying  court  to  Miss  Daw  for  some 


312  PLOT 

time  past,  but  not  so  much  to  her  liking  as  to  that  of  the 
colonel,  who  it  seems  is  an  old  friend  of  the  young 
gentleman's  father.  Yesterday  (I  knew  she  was  in  some 
trouble  when  she  drove  up  to  our  gate)  the  colonel  spoke 
to  Marjorie  of  Bradly,  —  urged  his  suit,  I  infer,  Mar- 
jorie  expressed  her  dislike  for  the  lieutenant  with  char- 
acteristic frankness,  and  finally  confessed  to  her  father 
—  well,  I  really  do  not  know  what  she  confessed.  It 
must  have  been  the  vaguest  of  confessions,  and  must 
have  sufficiently  puzzled  the  colonel.  At  any  rate,  it 
exasperated  him.  I  suppose  I  am  implicated  in  the  mat- 
ter, and  that  the  colonel  feels  bitterly  towards  me.  I 
do  not  see  why :  I  have  carried  no  messages  between  you 
and  Miss  Daw;  I  have  behaved  with  the  greatest  dis- 
cretion. I  can  find  no  flaw  anywhere  in  my  proceeding. 
X  do  not  see  that  anybody  has  done  anything,  —  except 
the  colonel  himself. 

It  is  probable,  nevertheless,  that  the  friendly  relations 
between  the  two  houses  will  be  broken  off.  "A  plague 
o'  both  your  houses,"  say  you.  I  will  keep  you  informed, 
as  well  as  I  can,  of  what  occurs  over  the  way.  We  shall 
remain  here  until  the  second  week  in  September.  Stay 
where  you  are,  or,  at  all  events,  do  not  dream  of  joining 
me.  .  .  .  Colonel  Daw  is  sitting  on  the  piazza  looking 
rather  wicked.  I  have  not  seen  Marjorie  since  I  parted 
with  her  in  the  garden. 

XII 

Edward  Delaney  to  Thomas  Dillon,  M.D., 
Madison  Square,  New  York 

August  30,  — . 
My  dear  Doctor:  If  you  have  any  influence  over 
Fleraming,  I  beg  of  you  to  exert  it  to  prevent  his  com- 


MARJORIE  DAW  313 

ing  to  this  place  at  present.  There  are  circumstances, 
which  I  will  explain  to  you  before  long,  that  make  it 
of  the  first  importance  that  he  should  not  come  into 
this  neighborhood.  His  appearance  here,  I  speak  ad- 
visedly, would  be  disastrous  to  him.  In  urging  him  to 
remain  in  New  York,  or  to  go  to  some  inland  resort, 
you  will  be  doing  him  and  me  a  real  service.  Of  course 
you  will  not  mention  my  name  in  this  connection.  You 
know  me  well  enough,  my  dear  doctor,  to  be  assured 
that,  in  begging  your  secret  cooperation,  I  have  reasons 
that  will  meet  your  entire  approval  when  they  are  made 
plain  to  you.  We  shall  return  to  town  on  the  15th  of 
next  month,  and  my  first  duty  will  be  to  present  myself 
at  your  hospitable  door  and  satisfy  your  curiosity,  if 
I  have  excited  it.  My  father,  I  am  glad  to  state,  has  so 
greatly  improved  that  he  can  no  longer  be  regarded  as 
an  invalid.   With  great  esteem,  I  am,  etc.,  etc. 

XIII 
Edward  Delaney  to  John  Flemming 

August  31,  — . 
Your  letter,  announcing  your  mad  determination  to 
come  here,  has  just  reached  me.  I  beseech  you  to  re- 
flect a  moment.  The  step  would  be  fatal  to  your  inter- 
ests and  hers.  You  would  furnish  just  cause  for  irritation 
to  R.  W.  D.;  and,  though  he  loves  Marjorie  tenderly, 
he  is  capable  of  going  to  any  lengths  if  opposed.  You 
would  not  like,  I  am  convinced,  to  be  the  means  of  caus- 
ing him  to  treat  her  with  severity.  That  would  be  the 
result  of  your  presence  at  The  Pines  at  this  juncture. 
I  am  annoyed  to  be  obliged  to  point  out  these  things  to 
you.  We  are  on  very  delicate  ground.  Jack;  the  situa- 
tion is  critical,  aud  the  slightest  mistake  in  a  move  would 


314  PLOT 

cost  us  the  game.  If  you  consider  it  worth  the  winning, 
be  patient.  Trust  a  Httle  to  my  sagacity.  Wait  and  see 
what  happens.  Moreover,  I  understand  from  Dillon 
that  you  are  in  no  condition  to  take  so  long  a  journey. 
He  thinks  the  air  of  the  coast  would  be  the  worst  thing 
possible  for  you;  that  you  ought  to  go  inland,  if  any- 
where.  Be  advised  by  me.   Be  advised  by  Dillon. 

XIV 

Telegrams 

September  1,  — . 
1.  —  To  Edward  Delaney 

Letter  received.  Dillon  be  hanged.  I  think  I  ought 
to  be  on  the  ground. 

J.  F. 

2.  —  To  John  Flemming 

Stay  where  you  are.  You  would  only  complicate 
matters.    Do  not  move  until  you  hear  from  me. 

E.  D. 

3.  —  To  Edward  Delaney 

My  being  at  The  Pines  could  be  kept  secret.  I  must 
see  her. 

J.  F. 
4.  —  To  John  Flemming 

Do  not  think  of  it.  It  would  be  useless.  R.  W.  D. 
has  locked  M.  in  her  room.  You  would  not  be  able  to 
effect  an  interview. 

E.D. 
5.  —  To  Edward  Delaney 

Locked  her  in  her  room.  Good  God.  That  settles 
the  question.  I  shall  leave  by  the  twelve-fifteen  express. 

J.  F. 


MARJORIE  DAW  315 

XV 

The  Arrival 

On  the  2d  of  September,  187-,  as  the  down  express 
due  at  3.40  left  the  station  at  Hampton,  a  young  man, 
leaning  on  the  shoulder  of  a  servant,  whom  he  addressed 
as  Watkins,  stepped  from  the  platform  into  a  hack, 
and  requested  to  be  driven  to  "The  Pines."  On  arriving 
at  the  gate  of  a  modest  farmhouse,  a  few  miles  from  the 
station,  the  young  man  descended  with  difficulty  from 
the  carriage,  and,  casting  a  hasty  glance  across  the 
road,  seemed  much  impressed  by  some  peculiarity  in  the 
landscape.  Again  leaning  on  the  shoulder  of  the  person 
Watkins,  he  walked  to  the  door  of  the  farmhouse  and 
inquired  for  Mr.  Edward  Delaney.  He  was  informed 
by  the  aged  man  who  answered  his  knock,  that  Mr. 
Edward  Delaney  had  gone  to  Boston  the  day  before,  but 
that  Mr.  Jonas  Delaney  was  within.  This  information 
did  not  appear  satisfactory  to  the  stranger,  who  inquired 
if  Mr.  Edward  Delaney  hnd  left  any  meassage  for  Mr. 
John  Flemming.  There  was  a  letter  for  Mr.  Flemming, 
if  he  were  that  person.  After  a  brief  absence  the  aged 
man  reappeared  with  a  letter. 

XVI 

Edward  Delaney  to  John  Flemming 

September  1,  — . 
I  am  horror-stricken  at  what  I  have  done!  When  I 
began  this  correspondence  I  had  no  other  purpose  than 
to  relieve  the  tedium  of  your  sick-chamber.  Dillon 
told  me  to  cheer  you  up.  I  tried  to.  I  thought  you 
entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing.   I  had   no  idea, 


316  PLOT 

until  within  a  few  days,  that  you  were  taking  matters 
au  serieux. 

What  can  I  say?  I  am  in  sackcloth  and  ashes.  I  am 
a  pariah,  a  dog  of  an  outcast.  I  tried  to  make  a  little 
romance  to  interest  you,  something  soothing  and  idyllic, 
and,  by  Jove !  I  have  done  it  only  too  well !  My  father 
does  n't  know  a  word  of  this,  so  don't  jar  the  old  gentle- 
man any  more  than  you  can  help.  I  fly  from  the  wrath 
to  come  —  when  you  arrive!  For  O  dear  Jack,  there 
is  n't  any  colonial  mansion  on  the  other  side  of  the  road, 
there  is  n't  any  piazza,  there  is  n't  any  hammock,  — 
there  is  n't  any  Marjorie  Daw! 


THE  NECKLACE  1 

{La  Parure) 

BY  GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT 

The  Necklace  is  presented  as  an  additional  example  of  the 
same  type  of  narrative  structure  as  that  illustrated  by  Marjorie 
Daw,  —  the  "hoax  plot"  form  of  the  "method  of  storj'." 
The  essential  distinction  between  the  two  narratives  lies  in 
the  difference  of  tone.  Marjorie  Daw  is  playfully  humorous;  it 
provokes  no  deeper  emotion  than  amusement,  sheer  enjoy- 
ment of  a  complicated  comic  situation.  The  Necklace,  how- 
ever, is  far  more  serious,  even  approaching  the  tragic,  in  the 
marring  of  Mathilde  Loisel's  young  life. 

She  was  one  of  those  pretty,  charming  girls  who  are 
born,  as  if  by  some  blunder  of  fate,  into  a  family  of 
people  compelled  to  work  for  a  living.  She  had  no  dowry, 
no  expectations,  no  means  of  securing  social  recogni- 
tion, of  being  appreciated  or  loved,  or  of  becoming  the 
wife  of  a  rich,  distinguished  husband;  and  she  married 
a  subordinate  clerk  in  the  office  of  the  Minister  of  Public 
Instruction. 

She  dressed  simply,  for  she  could  not  afford  expensive 
gowns;  but  she  was  unhappy,  as  if  she  were  not  in  her 
proper  station :  for  women  have  no  caste  or  rank,  — 
their  beauty,  their  grace,  their  charm  take  the  place  of 
birth  and  family.  Their  native  refinement,  their  instinc- 
tive elegance,  their  nimble  wit  constitute  their  sole 
aristocracy  and  make  the  daughters  of  the  people  the 
equals  of  the  noblest-born. 

Feeling  that  she  was  entitled  to  every  delicacy,  every 
luxury,  she  suffered  endless  torture.  She  hated  the 
^  TraDslated  for  this  work  by  the  Editor. 


S18  PLOT 

poverty  of  her  lodgings,  the  blankness  of  the  walls,  the 
worn-out  chairs,  the  ugly  upholstery.  All  these  things, 
which  another  woman  of  her  station  would  not  have 
noticed,  tortured  her,  filled  her  with  discontent.  The 
very  sight  of  the  little  Breton  peasant  girl  who  helped 
her  in  her  humble  housework  aroused  painful  regrets 
and  disappointed  dreams.  She  had  visions  of  silent 
drawing-rooms,  hung  with  Oriental  tapestries,  lighted 
by  lofty  bronze  candelabra;  of  liveried  valets  dozing 
m  large  armchairs,  drowsy  with  the  heavy  heat  of  the 
hot-air  stoves.  She  dreamed  of  grand  salons  furnished 
with  antique  silks,  of  delicate  cabinets  containing  curi- 
osities of  inestimable  value,  of  coquettish  little  rooms 
fragrant  with  perfume,  arranged  for  five-o'-clock  chats 
with  one's  most  intimate  friends,  with  men  well  known 
and  greatly  sought  after,  men  whose  acquaintance  all 
the  women  long  for  and  whose  notice  they  all  desire. 

When  she  sat  down  to  dinner,  facing  her  husband 
at  the  round  table  covered  with  a  cloth  three  days 
old,  and  he  uncovered  the  soup-tureen  exclaiming 
delightedly,  "Ah,  the  good  stew!  I  don't  know  any- 
thing better  than  that!"  she  dreamed  of  magnificent 
banquets,  of  shining  silver,  of  tapestries  enlivening  the 
walls  with  famous  characters  of  old  and  with  strange 
birds  amid  fairy  forests;  she  dreamed  of  exquisite  dishes 
served  on  wonderful  plates,  of  whispered  gallantries 
received  with  mysterious  smiles  while  eating  the  pink 
flesh  of  a  trout  or  the  wing  of  a  quail. 

She  had  no  gowns,  no  jewels,  —  nothing.  And  these 
were  the  only  things  that  she  cared  for;  she  felt  that  she 
was  made  for  such  things  as  these.  She  was  anxious  to 
please,  to  be  envied,  to  be  captivating  and  popular. 

She  had  a  wealthy  friend,  one  whom  she  used  to  know 
at  the  convent;  but  she  was  no  longer  willing  to  visit 


THE  NECKLACE  319 

her,  for  she  suffered  so  much  when  she  returned  home. 
And  for  whole  days  she  used  to  weep  with  regret,  anger, 
despair,  and  distress. 

One  evening  her  husband  came  home  with  a  tri- 
umphant air,  holding  in  his  hand  a  large  envelope. 
"There!"  said  he;  "there  is  something  for  you." 
She  hastily  tore  off  the  wrapper,  and  drew  forth  a 
printed  card  bearing  these  words :  — 

The  Minister  of  Public  Instruction  and  Madame 

Georges  Ramponneau 

ASK  THE  Honor  of 

Monsieur  and  Madame  Loisel's 

Presence  at  the  Palace  of  the  Minister, 

Monday,  January  Eighteenth. 

Instead  of  being  delighted,  as  her  husband  had  hoped, 
she  spitefully  threw  the  invitation  on  the  table,  murmur- 
ing, "What  do  you  expect  me  to  do  with  that?" 

"But,  my  darling,  I  thought  that  you  would  be  pleased. 
You  never  go  out,  and  this  is  a  grand  occasion.  I  had 
no  end  of  trouble  in  getting  that  card.  Every  one  is 
after  them:  the  affair  is  very  select,  and  not  many  in- 
vitations are  given  to  the  clerks.  You  will  see  the  whole 
official  world  there." 

She  glanced  at  him  with  an  irritated  expression,  and 
impatiently  said,  "What  do  you  expect  me  to  wear  if  I 
go?" 

He  had  not  thought  of  that;  he  stammered  out, 
"Why,  the  dress  that  you  wear  to  the  theater.  That 
seems  to  me  a  very  good  one  ..." 

Seeing  that  his  wife  was  weeping,  he  paused,  amazed, 
in  consternation.    Two  great  tears  were  slowly  making 


320  PLOT 

their  way  from  the  corners  of  her  eyes  down  to  the  cor- 
ners of  her  mouth. 

"What 's  the  matter  with  you?"  he  stuttered.  "What 
ails  you?" 

But  with  an  effort  she  had  choked  down  her  grief, 
and  she  replied  in  a  calm  voice,  wiping  the  tears  from 
her  cheeks,  "Nothing.  Only  I  have  n't  any  gown,  and 
consequently  I  can't  go  to  this  ball.  Give  your  card  to 
one  of  your  colleagues  whose  wife  has  more  clothes 
than  I." 

He  was  in  despair. 

"Come,  Mathilde,"  he  replied.  "How  much  would 
the  right  sort  of  gown  cost?  —  one  that  you  could  use 
again  on  other  occasions;  something  quite  simple?" 

She  reflected  a  few  seconds,  figuring  the  expense,  and 
at  the  same  time  wondering  what  sum  she  might  venture 
to  name  without  drawing  a  prompt  refusal  and  a  fright- 
ened exclamation  from  the  thrifty  clerk. 

Finally  she  replied  hesitatingly : "  I  don't  know  exactly, 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  with  four  hundred  francs  I  might 
manage  it." 

He  paled  a  little,  for  he  was  laying  aside  that  very 
sum  to  buy  a  gun  and  join  a  hunting-party  the  next 
summer  on  the  plain  of  Nanterre,  together  with  some 
friends,  who  were  going  to  shoot  larks  some  Sunday. 

However,  he  replied:  "Very  well.  I  will  give  you  four 
hundred  francs.    But  try  to  get  a  pretty  dress." 

The  day  of  the  ball  drew  near,  and  Madame  Loisel 
seemed  sad,  nervous,  depressed.  However,  her  dress 
was  ready. 

One  evening  her  husband  said  to  her:  "What  ails  you? 
Come,  you  have  acted  very  strangely  for  three  days." 

"I  am  worried,"  she  replied,  "because  I  have  no 


THE  NECKLACE  321 

jewelry,  not  a  single  stone,  nothing  to  put  on.  I  shall 
look  poverty-struck.    I  would  almost  rather  not  go." 

"Put  on  natural  flowers,"  he  replied.  "That's  quite 
the  thing  at  this  season.  For  ten  francs  you  can  get 
two  or  three  magnificent  roses." 

But  she  was  by  no  means  convinced. 

"No  —  nothing  is  more  humiliating  than  to  look 
poor  among  a  lot  of  rich  women." 

"  What  a  fool  you  are ! "  her  husband  exclaimed.  "  Go 
find  your  friend  Madame  Forestier,  and  ask  her  to  lend 
you  some  jewels.  You  are  thick  enough  with  her  for 
that." 

She  uttered  a  cry  of  delight:  "True!  I  never  thought 
of  that." 

The  next  day  she  called  on  her  friend  and  told  her  of 
her  trouble. 

Madame  Forestier  went  to  a  wardrobe  with  a  glass 
door,  took  a  large  jewel-case  from  it,  brought  it  out, 
and  opened  it;  and  said  to  Madame  Xioisel :  "Choose, 
my  dear." 

She  saw  first  of  all  some  bracelets,  then  a  pearl  neck- 
lace, then  a  Venetian  cross,  gold  and  stones  of  wonder- 
ful workmanship.  She  tried  on  the  jewels  before  the 
glass,  and  hesitated,  unable  to  make  up  her  mind  to 
leave  them,  to  give  them  back. 

"You  have  n't  anything  else?" 

"Why,  yes.   Look.    I  don't  know  what  pleases  you." 

Suddenly  she  discovered  in  a  black  satin  case  a  superb 
diamond  necklace;  and  her  heart  began  to  beat  with 
immoderate  longing.  Her  hands  trembled  as  she  took  it. 
She  put  it  about  her  neck,  over  her  high-necked  dress, 
and  stood  in  ecstasy  before  her  reflection  in  the  mirror. 

Then,  hesitating  and  full  of  suspense,  she  asked: 
"Can  you  lend  me  that,  only  that?" 


322  PLOT 

"Why,  yes;  certainly." 

She  threw  herself  upon  her  friend's  neck,  kissed  her 
passionately,  and  hurried  away  with  her  treasure.  ' 

The  day  of  the  ball  arrived.  Madame  Loisel  scored  a 
triumph.  She  was  prettier  than  any  other  woman,  ele- 
gant, gracious,  smiling,  delirious  with  delight.  All  the 
men  stared  at  her,  asked  who  she  was,  sought  an  intro- 
duction. All  the  Cabinet  attaches  wanted  to  waltz  with 
her.   The  Minister  himself  noticed  her. 

She  danced  with  intoxication,  with  passionate  enthu- 
siasm, carried  away  with  delight,  with  no  thought  of 
anything  else,  but  transported  with  the  triumph  of  her 
beauty,  the  glory  of  her  success;  as  it  were,  in  a  cloud  of 
happiness  at  all  this  homage,  this  admiration,  these 
aroused  desires,  this  conquest  so  complete  and  so  sweet 
to  a  woman's  heart. 

About  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  she  went  away. 
Her  husband  had  been  asleep  since  midnight,  alone  in 
a  little  deserted  anteroom  together  with  three  other  men 
whose  wives  were  enjoying  themselves. 

He  threw  over  her  shoulders  the  wraps  that  he  had 
brought  for  the  occasion,  modest,  ordinary,  everyday 
wraps,  whose  commonplace  character  contrasted  sharply 
with  the  elegance  of  the  ball-dress.  She  realized  this  and 
wished  to  escape  being  observed  by  the  other  women 
who  were  enveloping  themselves  in  rich  furs. 

Loisel  checked  her:  "Stop!  You  will  catch  cold  out- 
side.  I  will  call  a  cab." 

But  she  did  not  listen  to  him,  and  rapidly  ran  down 
the  staircase.  When  they  reached  the  street,  they 
found  no  carriage;  and  they  began  to  look  for  one,  call- 
ing out  to  the  cabmen  whom  they  saw  passing  at  a 
distance. 


THE   NECKLACE  323 

In  desperation  and  shivering  with  the  cold,  they  went 

j  down  in  the  direction  of  the  Seine.   At  last  on  the  quay 

'  they  came  across  one  of    those  antiquated  nocturnal 

j  coupes  which  one  sees  in  Paris  only  after  dark,  as  if 

they  were  ashamed  of  their  poverty  by  day. 

It  took  them  to  their  own  door  in  the  Rue  des  Martyrs, 
and  they  wearily  ascended  the  stairs.  For  her  every- 
thing was  at  an  end.  lie,  on  the  other  hand,  was  think- 
ing that  at  ten  o'clock  he  must  be  at  the  Ministry. 

She  removed  the  wraps  from  her  shoulders  before 
the  glass,  that  she  might  once  more  see  herself  in  all 
her  glory.  But  suddenly  she  uttered  an  exclamation. 
The  necklace  was  no  longer  on  her  neck! 

Her  husband,  already  half-undressed,  demanded: 
"What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  with  you  now?" 

She  turned  toward  him,  at  her  wits'  end:  "I  .  .  .  I  .  .  . 
I  have  n't  Madame  Forestier's  necklace!" 

He  jumped  up  in  consternation:  "What!  .  .  .  How! 
...  It's  not  possible!" 

And  they  searched  the  folds  of  the  dress,  of  the  cloak,  in 
the  pockets,  everywhere.    They  did  not  find  a  trace  of  it. 

"You  are  sure  you  had  it  when  you  left  the  ball?" 
asked  he. 

"Yes,  I  felt  it  in  the  vestibule  of  the  palace." 

"But  if  you  lost  it  on  the  street  we  should  have  heard 
it  drop.   It  must  be  in  the  cab." 

"Yes.  That's  it  probably.  Did  you  take  the  num- 
ber?" 

"No.   And  you,  did  n't  you  notice  it?" 

"No." 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  dismay.  Finally  Loisel 
put  on  his  clothes. 

"I  will  go  on  foot,"  said  he,  "over  the  entire  ground 
that  we  have  covered,  and  see  if  I  can't  find  it." 


324  PLOT 

And  he  went  out.  She  remained  in  her  ball-dress, 
without  strength  to  go  to  bed,  seated  helpless  on  a  chair, 
without  a  fire,  without  power  to  think. 

Her  husband  came  back  about  seven  o'clock.  He  had 
found  nothing. 

He  went  to  the  headquarters  of  the  police,  to  the 
newspapers,  to  promise  a  reward;  he  went  to  the  oflBces 
of  the  cab  companies,  —  in  fact,  he  went  to  every  place 
where  he  felt  a  suspicion  of  hope. 

She  waited  all  day,  in  the  same  state  of  prostration 
at  this  terrible  catastrophe. 

Loisel  came  back  in  the  evening,  his  face  hollow  and 
pale;  he  had  discovered  nothing. 

"You  must  write  to  your  friend,"  said  he,  "that  you 
have  broken  the  clasp  of  her  necklace,  and  that  you  are 
having  it  repaired.  That  will  give  us  time  to  turn 
around." 

She  wrote  at  his  dictation. 

And  the  end  of  a  week  they  had  lost  all  hope. 

And  Loisel,  who  had  aged  five  years,  said:  "We  must 
consider  how  we  can  replace  this  necklace." 

The  next  day  they  took  the  case  which  had  contained 
it,  and  went  to  the  jeweler  whose  name  they  found  in- 
side.   He  consulted  his  books. 

"It  was  not  I,  madame,  who  sold  this  necklace:  I 
must  have  furnished  only  the  case." 

Then  they  went  from  jeweler  to  jeweler,  looking  for 
a  necklace  like  the  other,  recalling  its  appearance  as  best 
they  could,  both  of  them  sick  with  despair  and  anguish. 

In  a  shop  of  the  Palais  Royale  they  found  a  diamond 
necklace  which  seemed  just  what  they  were  looking 
for.  The  price  was  forty  thousand  francs.  They  could 
have  it  for  thirty-six  thousand. 


THE  NECKLACE  325 

They  asked  the  jeweler  not  to  sell  it  for  three  days. 
And  they  bargained  with  him  that  he  would  take  it 
back  for  thirty-four  thousand  francs  if  the  first  one 
were  found  before  the  end  of  February. 

Loisel  possessed  eighteen  thousand  francs  which  his 
father  had  left  him.   He  would  borrow  the  rest. 

This  he  did,  asking  one  thousand  francs  of  one,  five 
hundred  of  another,  five  louis  here,  three  there.  He  gave 
notes,  he  undertook  ruinous  obligations,  he  entered  into 
relations  with  the  usurers,  with  the  whole  tribe  of  money- 
lenders. He  compromised  all  the  rest  of  his  life,  he  risked 
his  signature  without  even  knowing  if  he  should  be  able 
to  honor  it,  and,  distressed  with  fears  for  the  future,  by 
the  bleak  misery  that  was  assailing  him,  by  the  prospect 
of  all  the  physical  privation  and  the  mental  torture  that 
lay  before  him,  he  went  to  purchase  the  new  necklace, 
and  he  laid  down  on  the  counter  of  the  merchant  thirty- 
six  thousand  francs. 

When  Madame  Loisel  brought  back  the  necklace  to 
Madame  Forestier,  the  latter  said  coldly:  "You  ought 
to  have  returned  it  to  me  sooner,  for  I  might  have 
needed  it." 

She  did  not  open  the  case,  as  her  friend  had  feared  she 
might  do.  If  she  had  noticed  the  substitution  what 
would  she  have  thought.''  What  would  she  have  said? 
Would  she  not  have  taken  her  for  a  thief? 

Madame  Loisel  came  to  know  the  horrible  life  of  the 
poor.  She  undertook  her  part,  however,  heroically, 
without  hesitation.  The  frightful  debt  had  to  be  paid. 
She  would  pay  it.  They  discharged  their  servant;  they 
changed  their  lodgings;  they  rented  a  garret  up  under 
the  roof. 

She  became  acquainted  with  heavy  housework,  the 


3S6  PLOT 

hateful  cares  of  the  kitchen.  She  washed  the  dishes, 
breaking  her  pink  nails  on  greasy  pots  and  the  bottoms 
of  pans.  She  washed  the  dirty  linen,  the  shirts  and  the 
dish-cloths,  and  she  hung  them  on  a  line  to  dry.  She 
carried  the  slops  down  to  the  street  every  morning,  and 
brought  up  the  water,  pausing  at  each  landing  to  get 
her  breath.  And,  dressed  like  a  woman  of  the  people, 
she  went  to  the  fruit-dealer,  the  grocer,  the  butcher, 
her  basket  on  her  arm,  driving  bargains,  subjected  to 
abuse,  defending  her  miserable  money  sou  by  sou. 

Every  month  notes  had  to  be  met,  others  renewed, 
extension  of  time  secured. 

Her  husband  worked  evenings  making  fair  copies  of 
a  tradesman's  accounts,  and  often  at  night  he  copied 
manuscript  at  five  sous  a  page. 

And  this  life  lasted  ten  years. 

At  the  end  of  ten  years  they  had  paid  up  everything, 
everything,  including  usurers'  rates  and  compound  in- 
terest, 

Madame  Loisel  looked  old  now.  She  had  become 
a  strong,  hard,  rough  woman  of  the  poor.  Her  hair  in 
disorder,  her  skirts  askew,  her  hands  red,  she  spoke  in 
strident  tones.  She  scrubbed  the  floors  with  floods  of 
water.  But  sometimes  when  her  husband  was  at  the 
office  she  would  sit  by  the  window  and  dream  of  that 
evening  long  ago,  of  the  ball  where  she  had  been  so 
beautiful  and  so  popular. 

What  would  have  happened  if  she  had  not  lost  that 
necklace?  Who  knows.'*  Who  knows?  How  strange, 
how  full  of  changes  is  life!  How  little  can  make  or  mar 
us! 

One  Sunday  when  she  had  gone  for  a  walk  in  the 
Champs-Elysees  to  seek  relief  after  the  toil  of  the  week. 


THE   NECKLACE  327 

she  suddenly  observed  a  woman  leading  a  child.  It  was 
Madame  Forestier,  still  young,  still  beautiful  and  at- 
tractive. 

Madame  Loisel  was  stirred  with  agitation.  Should 
she  recognize  her?  Yes,  surely.  And  now  that  she  had 
paid  her  debts,  she  would  tell  her  everything.  Why 
not? 

She  drew  near. 

"How  do  you  do,  Jeanne?" 

Astonished  to  be  thus  familiarly  accosted  by  this  com- 
mon person,  the  other  did  not  recognize  her. 

She  stammered:  "Why  .  .  .  Madame  ...  I  do  not 
know  .  .  .  You  must  be  mistaken." 

"No,  I  am  Madame  Loisel." 

Her  friend  cried  out:  "Oh  .  .  .  my  poor  Mathilde, 
how  changed  you  are!" 

"Yes,  since  I  have  seen  you  I  have  had  many  hard 
days,  and  many  troubles  .  .  .  and  all  on  account  of 
you! 

"Of  me!  .  .  .How  is  that?" 

"You  remember  the  diamond  necklace  that  you  lent 
me  for  the  Ministerial  ball?" 

"Yes.   Well?" 

"Well,  I  lost  it." 

"How  can  that  be?   You  brought  it  back  to  me." 

"  I  brought  you  back  another  just  like  it.  And  we  have 
been  ten  years  paying  for  it.  This  was  not  easy  for  us, 
you  know :  we  had  nothing.  ...  At  last  it 's  finished  and 
I  am  terribly  glad." 

Madame  Forestier  had  stopped. 

"You  say  that  you  bought  a  diamond  necklace  to 
replace  mine?" 

"Yes.  You  never  noticed  it,  then?  They  were  very 
much  alike." 


328  PLOT 

And  she  smiled  with  a  joy  that  was  at  once  proud  and 
naive. 

Madame  Forestier,  deeply  stirred,  seized  her  two 
hands. 

"Oh,  my  poor  Mathilde!  Why,  mine  was  paste.  It 
was  worth  at  the  very  most  five  hundred  francs!" 


THE   MAN  WITH  THE  BLUE  EYES' 

(L'homme  aux  yeux  pales) 
BY  JEAN   RICHEPIN 

This  story  presents  a  very  peculiar  phase  of  plot  structure; 
it  belongs  to  the  type  of  hoax-plots,  and  yet  it  does  not  pursue 
the  conventional  type  of  The  Necklace  and  of  Marjorie  Daw, 
which  lead  the  reader  along  an  interesting  line  of  action  and 
then  confound  him  with  a  climax  at  complete  odds  with  what 
he  has  been  led  to  expect.  Tliis  narrative,  on  the  contrary,  is 
like  those  rivers  in  the  desert,  of  which  travelers  tell  us,  that 
suddenly  disappear  into  the  sand  and  are  seen  no  more.  The 
narrative  details  run  their  course,  the  reader  anticipates  a 
striking  climax,  and  —  there  is  none.  As  the  narrator  of  the 
tale  himself  says,  "There  is  no  conclusion";  and  this  failure 
to  reach  a  climactic  point  constitutes,  oddly  enough,  the 
very  point  itself  of  the  narrative. 

Monsieur  Pierre  Agewor  de  Vargnes,  the  ex- 
amining magistrate,  was  the  exact  opposite  of  a  practi- 
cal joker.  He  was  dignity,  staidness,  correctness  per- 
sonified. As  a  sedate  man,  he  was  quite  incapable  of 
being  guilty,  even  in  his  dreams,  of  anything  resembling 
a  practical  joke,  however  remotely.  I  know  nobody  to 
whom  he  could  be  compared,  unless  it  be  the  present 
President  of  the  French  Republic.  I  think  it  is  useless 
to  carry  the  analogy  any  further,  and  having  said  thus 
much,  it  will  be  easily  understood  that  a  cold  shiver 
passed  through  me  when  I  heard  the  follow ing. 

At  about  eight  o'clock  one  morning  last  winter,  as  he 

'  Iniliided  amon^  tales  by  Guy  dc  Maupassant  in  the  English 
translation  issued  by  the  St.  Dunstan  Guild.  Printed  by  i)erniission 
of  the  St.  Duustau  Guild,  publishers  of  Maupassant's  ]]'orkii  iu  Euglish. 


330  PLOT 

was  leaving  the  house  to  go  to  the  Palais  de  Justice, 
his  footman  handed  him  a  card,  on  which  was  printed :  — 

DOCTOR  JAMES  FERDINAND 

Member  of  the  Academy  of  Medicine, 

^QrUau^fcifice 

Chevah'er  of  the  Legion  of  Hoaer 

At  the  bottom  of  the  card,  there  was  written  in  pencil: 
"From  Lady  Frogere." 

Monsieur  de  Vargnes  knew  the  lady  very  well.  She 
was  a  very  agreeable  Creole  from  Haiti,  whom  he  had 
met  in  many  drawing-rooms,  and,  on  the  other  hand, 
though  the  doctor's  name  did  not  awaken  any  recollec- 
tions in  him,  his  quality  and  title|  alone  demanded  the 
courtesy  of  an  interview,  however  short  it  might  be. 
Therefore,  although  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  out,  Mon- 
sieur de  Vargnes  told  the  footman  to  show  in  his  early 
visitor,  but  to  tell  him  beforehand  that  his  master  was 
much  pressed  for  time,  as  he  had  to  go  to  the  law  courts. 

When  the  doctor  came  in,  irmpk^  nf  hin  nmml  ipipftj-^ 

lunbabililji,  the  magistrate  could  not  restrain  a  move- 
ment of  surprise,  for  the  doctor  presented  the  strange 
anomaly  of  being  a  Negro  of  the  purest,  blackest  type, 
with  the  eyes  of  a  white  man  —  of  a  man  from  the  North 
—  pale,  cold,  clear,  blue  eyes.  His  surprise  increased, 
when,  after  a  few  words  of  excuse  for  an  untimely  visit, 
the  doctor  added,  with  an  enigmatical  smile :  — 

"My  eyes  surprise  you,  do  they  not?  I  was  sure  that 
they  would,  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  came  here  in 
order  that  you  might  look  at  them  well,  and  never  for- 
get them," 

His  smile,  and  his  words  even  more  than  his  smile, 
seemed  to  be  those  of  a  madman.  He  spoke  very  softly, 
with  that  childish,  lisping  voice  which  is  peculiar  to 


THE  M.VN  WLTR  THE  BLUE  EYES         331 

Negroes,  and  his  mysterious,  almost  menacing  words 
consequently  sounded  all  the  more  as  if  they  were  ut- 
tered at  random  by  a  man  bereft  of  reason.  But  the 
doctor's  looks,  the  looks  of  those  pale,  cold,  clear,  blue 
eyes,  were  certainly  not  those  of  a  madman.  They 
clearly  expressed  menace,  yes,  menace,  as  well  as  irony, 
and  above  all,  implacable  ferocity,  and  their  glance  was 
like  a  flash  of  lightning,  which  one  could  never  forget. 

"I  have  seen,"  Monsieur  de  Vargnes  used  to  say,  . 
when  speaking  about  it,  "the  looks  of  many  murderers,   ^ 
I  but  in  none  of  them  have  I  ever  observed  such  a  depth       j 
^of  crimer^md  of  impudent  security  in  crime." 

And  this  impression  was  so  strong  that  Monsiuer  de 
Vargnes  thought  he  was  the  victim  of  some  hallucina- 
tion, especially  as  when  he  spoke  about  his  eyes,  the 
doctor  continued  with  a  smile,  and  in  his  most  childish 
accents :  — 

"Of  course,  monsieur,  you  cannot  understand  what  I 
am  saying  to  you,  and  I  must  beg  your  pardon  for  it. 
To-morrow  you  will  receive  a  letter  which  will  explain 
it  all  to  you,  but,  first  of  all,  it  was  necessary  that  I 
should  let  you  have  a  good,  a  careful  look  at  my  eyes, 
my  eyes,  which  are  myself,  my  only  and  true  self,  as 
you  will  see." 

With  these  words,  and  with  a  polite  bow,  the  doctor 
went  out,  leaving  Monsieur  de  Vargnes  extremely  sur- 
prised, and  a  prey  to  doubt.  He  said  to  himself:  "Is  he 
merely  a  madman?  The  fierce  expression  and  the  crimi- 
nal depth  of  his  looks  are  perhaps  caused  merely  by  the 
extraordinary  contrast  between  his  fierce  looks  and  his 
pale  eyes." 

And  absorbed  in  these  thoughts.  Monsieur  de  Vargnes 
unfortunately  allowed  several  minutes  to  elapse.  Then 
he  thought  to  himself  suddenly :  — 


332  PLOT 

"  No,  I  am  not  the  sport  of  any  hallucination,  and  this 
is  no  case  of  an  optical  phenomenon.  This  man  is  evi- 
dently some  terrible  criminal,  and  I  have  altogether 
failed  in  my  duty  in  not  arresting  him  myself  at  once, 
illegally,  even  at  the  risk  of  my  life." 
/'^"ihe  judge  ran  downstairs  in  pursuit  of  the  doctor, 
but  it  was  too  late;  he  had  disappeared.  In  the  after- 
noon, he  called  on  Madame  de  Frogere,  to  ask  her 
whether  she  could  tell  him  anything  about  the  matter. 
She,  however,  did  not  know  the  Negro  doctor  in  the 
least,  and  was  even  able  to  assure  him  that  he  was  a 
fictitious  personage,  for,  as  she  was  well  acquainted  with 
the  upper  classes  in  Haiti,  she  knew  that  the  Academy 
of  Medicine  at  Port-au-Prince  had  no  doctor  of  that 
name  among  its  members.  As  Monsieur  de  Vargnes 
persisted,  and  gave  descriptions  of  the  doctor,  especially 
mentioning  his  extraordinary  eyes,  Madame  de  Fro- 
gere began  to  laugh,  and  said :  — 

"You  have  certainly  had  to  do  with  a  hoaxer,  my  dear 
monsieur.  The  eyes  which  you  have  described  are  cer- 
tainly those  of  a  white  man,  and  the  individual  must 
have  been  painted." 

On  thinking  it  over.  Monsieur  de  Vargnes  remembered 
that  the  doctor  had  nothing  of  the  Negro  about  him  but 
his  black  skin,  his  woolly  hair  and  beard,  and  his  way  of 
speaking,  which  was  easily  imitated.  He  had  not  the 
characteristic,  undulating  walk.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he 
was  only  a  practical  joker,  and  during  the  whole  day, 
Monsieur  de  Vargnes  took  refuge  in  that  view,  which 
rather  wounded  his  dignity  as  a  man  of  consequence,  but 
appeased  his  scruples  as  a  magistrate. 

The  next  day,  he  received  the  promised  letter,  which 
was  written,  as  well  as  addressed,  in  characters  cut  out 
of  the  newspapers.    It  was  as  follows :  — 


THE  MAN   WITH  TllE  BLUE  EYES         333 

Monsieur: 

"Dr.  James  Ferdinand  does  not  exist,  but  the  man 
whose  eyes  you  saw  docs,  and  you  will  certainly  recog- 
nize his  eyes.  This  man  has  conmiitted  two  crimes,  for 
which  he  does  not  feel  any  remorse,  but,  as  he  is  a  psy- 
chologist, he  is  afraid  of  some  day  yielding  to  the  irre- 
sistible temptation  of  confessing  his  crimes.  You  know 
better  than  any  one  (and  that  is  your  most  powerful 
aid),  with  what  imperious  force  criminals,  especially 
intellectual  ones,  feel  this  temptation.  That  great  poet, 
Edgar  Allan  Poe,  has  written  masterpieces  on  this  sub- 
ject, which  express  the  truth  exactly,  but  he  has  omitted 
to  mention  the  last  phenomenon,  which  I  will  tell  you. 
Yes,  I,  a  criminal,  feel  a  terrible  wish  for  somebody  to 
know  of  my  crimes,  and  when  this  requirement  is  satis- 
fied, when  my  secret  has  been  revealed  to  a  confidant, 
I  shall  be  tranquil  for  the  future,  and  be  freed  from  this 
demon  of  perversity,  which  only  tempts  us  once.  Well ! 
Now  that  is  accomplished.  You  shall  have  my  secret: 
from  the  day  that  you  recognize  me  by  my  eyes  you  will 
try  to  find  out  what  I  am  guilty  of,  and  how  I  was 
guilty,  and  you  will  discover  it,  being  a  master  of  your 
profession,  which,  by-the-by,  has  procured  you  the 
honor  of  having  been  chosen  by  me  to  bear  the  weight 
of  this  secret,  which  now  is  shared  by  us,  and  by  us  two 
alone.  I  say,  advisedly,  by  us  two  alone.  You  could  not, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  prove  the  reality  of  this  secret  to 
any  one,  unless  I  were  to  confess  it,  and  I  defy  you  to 
obtain  my  public  confession,  as  I  have  confessed  it  to 
you,  and  without  danger  to  myself." 

Three  months  later.  Monsieur  de  Vargnes  met  Mon- 
sieur X at  an  evening  party,  and  at  first  sight, 

and  without  the  slightest  hesitation,  he  recognized  in 


334  PLOT 

him  those  very  pale,  very  cold,  and  very  clear  blue 
eyes,  eyes  which  it  was  impossible  to  forget. 

The  man  himself  remained  perfectly  impassive,  so 
that  Monsieur  de  Vargnes  was  forced  to  say  to  him- 
self: — 

"Probably  I  am  the  sport  of  an  hallucination  at  this 
moment,  or  else  there  are  two  pairs  of  eyes  that  are 
perfectly  similar,  in  the  world.  And  what  eyes!  Can  it 
be  possible?" 

The  magistrate  instituted  inquiries  into  his  life,  and 
he  discovered  this,  which  removed  all  his  doubts. 

Five  years  previously  Monsieur  X had  been  a 

very  poor,  but  very  brilliant  medical  student,  who,  al- 
thought  he  never  took  his  doctor's  degree,  had  already 
made  himself  remarkable  by  his  microbiological  re- 
searches. 

A  young  and  very  rich  widow  had  fallen  in  love  with 
him  and  married  him.  She  had  one  child  by  her  first 
marriage,  and  in  the  space  of  six  months  first  the  child 
and  then  the  mother  died  of    typhoid   fever.     Thus 

Monsieur  X had  inherited  a  large  fortune,  in  due 

form,  and  without  any  possible  dispute.  Everybody 
said  that  he  had  attended  to  the  two  patients  with  the 
utmost  devotion.  Now,  were  these  two  deaths  the  two 
crimes  mentioned  in  his  letter? 

But  then.  Monsieur  X must  have  poisoned  his 

two  victims  with  the  microbes  of  typhoid  fever,  which 
he  had  skillfully  cultivated  in  them,  so  as  to  make  the 
disease  incurable,  even  by  the  most  devoted  care  and 
attention.   Why  not? 

"Do  you  really  believe  it?"  I  asked  Monsieur  de 
Vargnes. 

"Absolutely,"  he  replied.  "And  the  most  terrible 
thing  about  it  is  that  the  villain  is  right  when  he  defies 


THE  MAN  Vam  THE  BLUE  F.YES         335 

me  to  force  him  to  confess  his  crime  publicly,  for  I  see 
no  means  of  obtaining  a  confession,  none  whatever. 
For  a  moment  I  thought  of  magnetism,  but  who  could 
magnetize  that  man  with  those  pale,  cold,  bright  eyes? 
With  such  eyes,  he  would  force  the  magnetizer  to  de- 
nounce himself  as  the  culprit." 

And  then  he  said,  with  a  deep  sigh :  — 

"Ah!  Formerly  there  was  something  good  about 
justice!" 

When  he  saw  my  inquiring  looks,  he  added  in  a  firm 
and  perfectly  convinced  voice :  — 

"Formerly,  justice  had  torture  at  its  command." 

"Upon  my  word,"  I  replied,  with  all  an  author's  un- 
conscious and  simple  egotism,  "it  is  quite  certain  that 
without  the  torture,  this  strange  tale  will  have  no  con- 
clusion, and  that  is  very  unfortunate,  so  far  as  regards 
the  story  I  intended  to  make  out  of  it." 


GENERAL 


LA  GRANDE  BRETfiCHE ' 

BY   HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

La  Grande  Breteche  illustrates  all  the  structural  elements 
that  constitute  complete  narrative:  setting,  character,  plot, 
and  dialogue.  But  it  is  especially  interesting  as  a  study  in 
"point  of  view." 

"The  narrative  is,  in  the  broad,  an  example  of  the  first- 
person  type  of  approach  but  this  passes  through  many  succes- 
sive phases.  At  first  it  is  largely  a  matter  of  setting.  La  Grande 
Breteche  is  described  as  visible  to  the  beholder  —  as  yet  quite 
impersonal  —  from  the  top  of  the  neighboring  mountain, 
from  which  he  can  look  down  upon  the  inclosure  and  observe 
the  estate  at  large.  Then  the  point  of  view  changes  to  a  closer 
inspection  of  the  street  side,  through  one  of  the  numerous 
holes  made  in  the  old  gate  by  the  children  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. Almost  immediately,  however,  vagueness  and  imper- 
sonality are  cast  aside,  and,  in  his  own  person.  Monsieur 
Horace,  the  narrator,  takes  the  stage,  and  by  night,  "braving 
scratches,  makes  his  way  into  the  garden  that  now  had  no 
owner,"  and  contemplates  it  at  leisure,  straying  about  the 
grounds  and  indulging  in  orgies  of  imaginary  adventure.  But 
he  is  soon  visited  at  the  inn  by  the  notary.  Monsieur  Regnault, 
who  forbids  further  trespass  on  the  deserted  premises.  At  this 
juncture,  although  the  story  is  still  related  in  the  words  of  the 
original  narrator,  the  point  of  view  becomes  that  of  the  notary, 
who  garrulously  recounts  his  experiences  in  the  chateau  at  the 
deathbed  of  the  late  owner,  the  Countess  de  Mftrret.  With 
this  change,  the  attitude  of  approach  shifts  over  from  one  of 
setting,  and  interest  centers  in  action.  But  Regnault's  hori- 
zon, while  narrower  in  extent  than  what  has  preceded,  is  but 
general,  after  all,  and  the  narrator  speedily  seeks  to  supple- 
ment the  notary's  story  by  that  of  some  one  to  whom  more 
details  are  known.    Such  information  he  readily  finds  in  his 

^  From  Seines  de  la  Vie  PrivSe.  Translated  for  this  work  by  the 
Editor. 


340  GENERAL 

Iandla(ly,  Mother  Lepas,  a  peasant  woman,  who,  from  her  own 
experiences,  adds  materially  to  the  revelations  of  the  notary 
regarding  the  mystery  of  the  chateau.  Thus,  with  her  narra- 
tive, the  point  of  view  again  changes,  and  again  becomes  more 
concentrated  in  scope.  Finally,  convinced  that  he  can  yet 
penetrate  the  secret  of  the  whole  mystery  of  La  Grande 
Breteche  by  means  of  Rosalie,  the  servant  at  the  inn  and 
formerly  in  the  employ  of  the  Countess,  Monsieur  Horace 
gains  the  girl's  confidence,  and  she  ultimately  tells  him  of  the 
gruesome  scene  in  which  she  personally  was  an  actor.  Thus 
the  point  of  view  changes  for  the  sixth  time,  and  is  now 
concentrated  on  the  very  core  of  the  story,  the  discovery  by 
Monsieur  de  Merret  of  his  wife's  lover  and  the  consequent 
adventure. 

"  A  further  detail  of  structure  characterize^  Rosalie's  story. 
While  the  account  of  the  final  details  is  hers,  yet  Monsieur 
Horace  maintains  the  autobiographical  attitude,  giving  her 
story  in  his  own  words  and  assuming  the  role  of  omniscience. 
For  example,  speaking  of  Monsieur  de  Merret,  he  says,  "Dur- 
ing dinner  he  [Monsieur]  had  observed  that  his  wife  was  quite 
coquettishly  dressed;  on  his  way  home  from  the  club  he  had 
said  to  himself  that  she  seemed  to  be  recovering  from  her  in- 
disposition and  that  her  convalescence  was  becoming  to  her." 
Later  on,  "Just  as  he  turned  the  key  of  his  wife's  room,  he 
thought  he  heard  close  tlie  door  of  the  closet  that  I  have 
mentioned,"  etc.  Again,  when  his  wife  replied  that  there  is  no 
one  in  the  closet,  "That  'no'  pierced  to  Monsieur  de  Merret 's 
very  heart.  He  did  not  believe  it,"  etc.  And  so  on  throughout 
the  scene:  we  have  details  that  Rosalie  could  not  possibly  have 
supplied,  and  that  we  can  explain  only  on  the  omniscient  basis, 
unless,  perhaps,  we  assume  that  Monsieur  Horace,  while  nar- 
rating Rosalie's  experiences  in  propria  persona,  enlarged  upon 
her  accoimt  by  supplying  what  seemed  natural  inferences 
from  the  data  given  by  the  girl."  * 

About  a  hundred  yards  outside  of  Vendome,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Loire,  there  stands  a  gloomy  old  mansion, 
crowned  by  a  lofty  roof,  and  so  completely  isolated  that 
near  it  there  is  not  even  the  foul-smelling  tannery  nor 

*  Rhetorical  Principles  of  Narration,  pp.  196-98. 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  341 

the  wretched  inn  that  one  ordinarily  sees  in  the  immedi- 
ate neighborhood  of  all  small  towns.  In  front  of  this 
dwelling,  facing  the  river,  is  a  garden,  where  in  days 
gone  by  rows  of  close-trimmed  boxwood  outlined  the 
paths,  but  now  they  run  cjuite  wild.  A  few  willows,  their 
roots  in  the  Loire,  have  grown  as  rapidly  as  the  hedge 
about  the  inclosure,  and  half  conceal  the  house.  Weeds 
flourish  on  the  sloping  banks  of  the  stream.  The  fruit 
trees,  now  neglected  for  ten  years,  bear  fruit  no  longer, 
and  their  runners  form  a  dense  thicket.  The  fruit  walls 
look  like  palisades.  The  paths,  which  used  to  be  graveled, 
are  full  of  purslane;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  all  traces  of  the 
paths  are  gone. 

Looking  from  the  top  of  the  mountain,  to  which  cling 
the  ruins  of  the  old  chateau  of  the  Dukes  of  Vendome,  — 
the  only  place  from  which  the  eye  can  penetrate  into  this 
inclosure,  —  one  would  say  that  at  some  vague  bygone 
time  this  corner  of  the  world  had  been  the  pride  of  some 
gentleman  devoted  to  roses  and  tulips  —  in  a  word,  to 
fancy  gardening  —  but  particularly  fond  of  fine  fruits. 
An  arbor  —  or  rather,  the  ruins  of  an  arbor,  are  still 
visible,  and  under  it  there  is  even  yet  a  table  which 
has  partially  withstood  the  ravages  of  time.  As  you  look 
at  this  old  garden,  you  can  picture  the  mild  joy  of  quiet 
provincial  life,  just  as  you  can  picture  the  life  of  a  re- 
spectable tradesman  by  reading  the  inscription  on  his 
tomb.  To  complete  the  melancholy  but  not  unpleas- 
ant scene  that  stirs  one's  imagination,  there  is  on  one  of 
the  walls  a  sundial  bearing  this  commonplace  Christian 
inscription:  Ulfimani  cogita! 

The  roof  of  the  house  is  sadly  dilajjidated;  the  blinds 
are  always  dowii;  the  balconies  are  covered  \\ith  swal- 
lows'nests;  the  doors  are  never  open.  Tall  weeds  have 
marked  with  green  lines  the  cracks  in  the  steps;  the  iron- 


342  GENERAL 

work  is  covered  with  rust.  Moon,  sun,  winter,  summer, 
snow,  have  rotted  the  wood,  have  warped  the  boards, 
and  have  worn  away  the  paint. 

The  gloomy  silence  that  reigns  there  is  broken  only 
by  the  birds,  the  cats,  the  martlets,  the  rats,  and  the 
mice,  who  are  free  to  run  about,  fight,  and  devour  one 
another.  An  invisible  hand  has  everywhere  written  the 
word  "Mystery." 

If,  impelled  by  curiosity,  you  should  go  to  inspect 
this  house  from  the  side  toward  the  road,  you  would  see 
a  great  gate  with  arched  top,  in  which  the  children 
of  the  neighborhood  have  made  innumerable  holes.  I 
learned  later  that,  some  ten  years  before,  this  gate  had 
been  condemned.  Through  these  irregular  openings  you 
could  observe  the  perfect  harmony  between  the  front 
of  the  garden  and  the  front  of  the  court.  But  the  same 
disorder  reigns  here  as  well.  Bunches  of  weeds  grow  about 
the  pavements.  Enormous  cracks  furrow  the  walls 
whose  blackened  crests  are  entwined  with  innumerable 
festoons  of  wall-wort.  The  steps  are  in  fragments;  the 
bell-rope  is  rotten;  the  gutters  are  broken.  What  fire 
from  heaven  has  passed  by  here.?  What  judgment  has 
decreed  that  salt  be  sown  upon  this  spot.?  Has  some  one 
here  insulted  God?  Has  some  one  proved  traitor  to 
France?  These  are  the  questions  that  naturally  come 
to  mind.  Reptiles  creep  about,  and  there  is  no  answer. 
This  empty,  deserted  house  is  one  great  enigma,  and 

^.  no  one  knows  the  solution. 

3»  At  one  time  the  place  was  a  small  feudal  estate,  and 
bore  the  name  "La  Grande  Breteche."  During  Des- 
plein's  stay  at  Vendome,  where  he  had  left  me  during 
his  visit  to  a  rich  patient,  the  sight  of  this  singular  house 
became  one  of  my  keenest  pleasures.  Was  it  not  more 
than  a  ruin?    With  a  ruin  one  always  feels  actual  his- 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  343 

torlc  associations,  associations  that  he  can  verify;  but 
this  structure,  still  standing,  though  in  a  state  of  gradual 
demolition  by  some  avenging  hand,  had  a  mystery  of 
its  own,  a  secret;  at  the  very  least  it  was  freakish. 

More  than  once  at  evening  I  approached  the  hedge 
about  the  enclosure,  now  grown  wild.  I  braved  scratches, 
I  made  my  way  into  this  garden  that  now  had  no  owner, 
this  estate  that  could  no  longer  be  called  cither  public 
or  private;  for  hours  at  a  time  I  would  remain  in  contem- 
plation of  its  disorder.  I  would  not  have  asked  a  single 
question  of  any  Vendome  gossip,  even  though  I  might 
have  gained  thereby  the  true  story  of  this  strange  place. 
I  composed  delightful  romances  there;  I  gave  myself  up 
to  mild  orgies  of  melancholy;  and  I  was  thrilled.  If  I 
had  found  out  the  secret  —  perhaps  the  commonplace  se- 
cret —  of  all  this  neglect,  I  never  should  have  composed 
the  unspoken  poems  with  which  I  indulged  myself.  To 
me  this  retreat  brought  the  most  varied  pictures  of 
human  life,  all  darkened  by  misfortune;  at  one  time  it 
had  the  air  of  a  cloister  without  the  monks;  at  another, 
the  quiet  of  the  graveyard,  without  the  dead,  who  speak 
to  one  in  their  epitaphs;  one  day  it  was  the  house  of 
the  leper;  another,  the  house  of  the  Fates;  —  but  it 
was,  above  all,  the  very  impersonation  of  the  province 
itself,  with  all  its  conventionality  and  its  simple  life 
from  day  to  day.  I  have  often  wept  there,  but  I  have 
never  smiled.  More  than  once  I  have  felt  an  involun- 
tary shudder  when  I  have  heard  above  my  head  the  low 
rustling  of  some  frightened  dove  as  it  flew  over  me. 
The  ground  is  damj);  and  you  must  not  be  afraid  of 
lizards,  snakes,  and  toads,  which  frequent  the  j)Iace  in 
the  wild  freedom  of  nature;  particularly  you  must  not 
be  afraid  of  the  cold,  for  at  certain  moments  you  feel 
a  cloak  of  ice  resting  on  your  shoulders,  like  the  hand 
of  the  Commander  upon  the  neck  of  Don  Juan. 


344  GENERAL 

One  evening  I  shuddered.  The  wind  had  twisted  a 
rusty  old  weathercock,  and  its  squeaking  sounded  as  if 
the  house  had  groaned,  just  as  I  had  completed  a  dismal 
drama  in  which  I  had  accounted  for  this  monument 
to  melancholy.  I  returned  to  my  inn,  a  prey  to  depres- 
sion. When  I  had  eaten  my  supper,  my  hostess  entered 
my  room  with  an  air  of  mystery,  and  said: 

"Monsieur,  here  is  Monsieur  Regnault." 

"And  who  is  Monsieur  Regnault?" 

"What !  Monsieur  does  not  know  Monsieur  Regnault ! 
Well,  that  is  strange!"  said  she  as  she  went  out. 

Then  I  saw  entering  the  room  a  tall,  spare  man, 
dressed  in  black,  his  hat  in  his  hand.  He  came  in  like 
a  ram  about  to  make  a  rush  at  a  rival.  He  revealed  a 
retreating  brow,  a  small  pointed  head,  and  a  pale  face 
about  the  color  of  a  glass  of  dirty  water.  One  would  have 
said  that  he  was  a  gentleman-in-waiting  to  some  Minis- 
ter of  State.  The  stranger  wore  an  old  coat,  very  thread- 
bare about  the  seams;  but  he  sported  a  diamond  in  the 
frill  of  his  shirt  and  gold  rings  in  his  ears. 

"Monsieur,"  said  I  to  him,  "whom  have  I  the  honor 
of  addressing?" 

He  seated  himself  upon  a  chair  before  the  fire,  laid 
his  hat  on  my  table,  and  then,  rubbing  his  hands,  re- 
plied : 

"Ah,  it  is  very  cold.  Monsieur,  I  am  Monsieur  Reg- 
nault." 

I  bowed,  saying  to  myself: 

'' II  Bondocani!   Who  is  he?" 

"I  am,"  he  continued,  "the  notary  at  Vendome." 

"I  am  charmed,  monsieur,"  I  exclaimed,  "but,  for 
reasons  of  my  own,  I  am  not  about  to  make  my  will." 

"Just  a  moment!"  he  cried,  raising  his  hand  as  if  to 
impose  silence.  "Allow  me!  I  have  understood  that  you 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  345 

are  accustomed  to  stroll  about  the  garden  of  La  Grande 
Breteche." 

"Yes,  monsieur."  n, 

"Just  a  moment!"  said  he,  repeating  his  gesture;  — 
this  action  seemed  to  give  him  actual  pleasure;  "Mon- 
sieur, I  come  in  the  name  of  and  as  executor  of  the  late 
Madame  the  Countess  de  Merret  to  beg  that  you  dis- 
continue your  visits.  Just  a  moment !  I  am  no  Turk,  nor 
do  I  wish  to  charge  you  with  having  committed  any 
crime.  Furthermore,  you  may  very  likely  be  ignorant 
of  the  circumstances  that  render  it  necessary  for  me  to 
allow  the  most  beautiful  mansion  in  Vendome  to  go 
to  ruin.  Yet,  monsieur,  you  seem  to  be  a  man  of  educa- 
tion, and  you  must  be  aware  that  the  laws  forbid  under 
heavy  penalties  that  one  trespass  on  inclosed  premises. 
A  hedge  is  as  good  as  a  wall.  But  the  condition  into 
which  the  place  has  fallen  may  serve  to  excuse  your 
curiosity.  I  would  ask  nothing  better  than  to  allow  you 
to  come  and  go  freely  about  the  house;  but,  charged 
as  I  am  to  carry  out  the  wishes  of  the  former  owner,  I 
have  the  honor,  monsieur,  to  request  that  you  no  longer 
enter  the  garden.  Even  I,  monsieur,  have  not,  since  the 
opening  of  the  will,  put  my  foot  in  the  house,  which,  as 
I  have  had  the  honor  of  telling  you  already,  forms  a 
part  of  the  estate  of  Madame  de  Merret.  We  have 
merely  assured  ourselves  of  the  number  of  windows  and 
doors  in  order  to  determine  the  amount  of  the  taxes, 
which  I  pay  every  year  from  the  funds  set  aside  for  that 
purpose  by  Madame  the  Countess.  Ah,  my  dear  sir, 
that  will  of  hers  made  a  great  stir  in  Vendome!" 

At  this  point  the  worthy  man  paused  to  blow  his  nose. 
I  appreciated  his  loquacity,  for  I  saw  clearly  enough 
that  the  administration  of  Madame  de  Merret's  estate 
was  the  most  important  event  of  his  life  —  that  it  con- 


346  GENERAL 

stituted  at  once  his  reputation,  his  pride,  his  "Restora- 
tion." I  should  have  to  bid  farewell  to  all  my  delightful 
dreams,  to  my  romancing.  I  was  not  averse,  therefore, 
to  the  pleasure  of  learning  the  truth  from  this  official 
source. 

"Monsieur,"  said  I,  "would  it  be  in  bad  taste  were  I 
to  ask  you  the  reason  for  this  strange  state  of  affairs?" 

At  these  words,  an  expression  passed  over  the  notary's 
face  indicating  the  pleasure  that  all  men  feel  who  are 
given  to  riding  hobbies.  He  pulled  up  his  collar  with  an 
air  of  self-satisfaction,  took  a  small  snuffbox  from  his 
pocket,  opened  it,  offered  it  to  me,  and,  upon  my  de- 
clining, helped  himself  to  a  generous  pinch.  He  was 
perfectly  happy.  A  man  without  a  hobby  little  knows 
what  one  can  really  get  out  of  life,  A  hobby  stands  just 
on  the  dividing-line  between  passion  and  monomania. 
At  that  moment  I  understood  the  full  meaning  of 
Sterne's  sage  remark,  and  I  realized  the  joy  that  Uncle 
Toby  must  have  felt  when  with  the  assistance  of  Trim 
he  was  fairly  mounted  on  his  hobby-horse  of  battles  and 
sieges. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Monsieur  Regnault,  "I  was  Maltre 
Roquin's  head  clerk,  in  Paris;  —  an  excellent  office,  of 
which  you  have  perhaps  heard?  No?  Yet  an  unfortunate 
bankruptcy  has  made  it  famous.  Not  having  sufficient 
means  to  live  in  Paris  with  rents  at  the  price  that  they 
reached  in  1816, 1  came  here  and  purchased  the  business 
of  my  predecessor.  I  had  relatives  in  Vendome,  — 
among  others,  a  very  rich  aunt,  who  gave  me  her  daugh- 
ter in  marriage. 

"Monsieur,"  he  continued  after  a  slight  pause,  "three 
months  after  I  had  received  my  license  from  his  lord- 
ship the  Keeper  of  the  Seals,  I  was  sent  for  one  evening 
by  Madame  the  Countess  de  Merret,  just  as  I  was  on 


LA  GRANDE  BRETfiCHE  347 

the  point  of  going  to  bed.  (I  was  not  yet  married.)  Her 
maid,  an  excellent  young  woman,  who  to-day  works  in 
this  very  inn,  was  at  my  door  with  Madame  the  Coun- 
tess's carriage.  Ah,  just  a  moment!  I  must  tell  you, 
monsieur,  that  Monsieur  the  Count  de  Merret  had  gone 
to  Paris  to  die,  two  months  before  I  came  here.  He  died 
there  in  wretchedness,  a  slave  to  every  form  of  excess; 
—  do  you  get  my  meaning?  On  the  day  of  his  departure 
Madame  the  Countess  had  quitted  La  Grande  Breteche, 
and  had  stripped  it  of  everything.  Some  even  asserted 
that  she  had  burned  the  furniture,  the  hangings,  —  in 
fact,  everything  belonging  to  the  premises  at  present 
leased  by  the  aforesaid  .  .  .  Stop!  what  am  I  saying? 
Pardon  me;  I  thought  I  was  dictating  a  lease  .  .  .  That 
she  burned  them,"  he  resumed,  "in  the  meadow  at 
Merret.  —  Have  j'ou  been  to  Merret,  monsieur?  No," 
said  he,  answering  his  own  question  for  me.  "Ah,  it  is 
a  beautiful  spot! 

"For  some  months,"  he  continued  with  a  slight  shake 
of  his  head,  "Monsieur  the  Count  and  ISIadame  the 
Countess  had  lived  a  strange  sort  of  life;  they  received 
no  guests;  Madame  occupied  the  ground  floor,  and  Mon- 
sieur the  floor  above.  When  Madame  the  Countess  was 
left  alone,  she  never  appeared  in  public  except  at  church. 
Later,  at  the  chateau,  she  refused  to  see  the  friends  who 
came  to  visit  her.  She  was  already  greatly  altered  at 
the  time  of  leaving  La  Grande  Breteche  for  Merret.  The 
dear  woman  —  I  say  '  dear '  because  this  diamond  came 
to  me  from  her,  although  I  never  saw  her  on  more  than 
one  occasion  —  well,  the  good  lady  was  very  ill;  she 
had  undoubtedly  despaired  of  recovery,  for  she  died 
without  consenting  to  call  in  a  physician;  consequently 
many  of  our  ladies  have  thought  that  she  was  not  alto- 
gether in  her  right  mind. 


348  GENERAL 

"Monsieur,  my  curiosity  was  consequently  aroused 
when  I  learned  that  Madame  de  Merret  desired  my  ser- 
vices. I  was  not  the  only  one  interested  in  her  history : 
that  evening,  although  it  was  late,  the  whole  town  knew 
that  I  had  gone  to  Merret.  The  maid  replied  rather  in- 
definitely to  the  questions  that  I  asked  her  on  our  way 
to  the  house;  nevertheless  she  said  that  during  the  day 
the  cure  of  Merret  had  administered  the  last  sacraments 
to  her  mistress,  and  that  she  did  not  seem  likely  to  sur- 
vive through  the  night. 

"At  eight  o'clock  I  reached  the  chateau.  I  ascended 
the  main  staircase,  and,  after  passing  through  several 
large  apartments,  lofty  and  dark,  and  as  cold  and  damp 
as  the  devil,  I  reached  the  state  bedchamber  where  the 
Countess  lay.  In  view  of  the  rumors  that  were  in  circu- 
lation about  the  lady  (monsieur,  I  should  never  finish 
if  I  repeated  to  you  all  the  stories  that  are  told  regarding 
her!),  I  had  pictured  her  to  myself  as  a  coquette.  But 
—  just  think  of  it  —  I  had  no  little  difficulty  in  distin- 
guishing her  on  the  great  bed  where  she  was  lying.  It 
is  true,  she  had  only  one  old-fashioned  Argand  lamp 
to  give  light  in  that  immense  chamber,  decorated  with 
ancient  friezes  so  thickly  coated  with  dust  that  merely 
to  look  at  them  made  you  sneeze.  But  then,  you  have 
not  been  to  Merret!  Well,  monsieur,  the  bed  is  one  of 
those  ancient  affairs  with  a  high  canopy,  decorated 
with  a  flowered  cretonne.  A  small  night-table  stood  near 
the  bed,  and  on  it  I  noticed  a  copy  of  the  Imitation  of 
Christ,  which,  by  the  way,  I  purchased  for  my  wife,  as 
well  as  the  lamp.  There  was  also  a  large  easy-chair  for 
her  woman  attendant,  and  two  ordinary  chairs.  There 
was  no  fire  whatever.  So  much  for  the  furniture;  it 
would  not  have  filled  ten  lines  in  an  inventory. 

"Ah,  my  dear  sir,  if  you  had  seen  as  I  did  that  immense 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  349 

room,  hung  with  tapestries,  you  would  have  felt  that 
you  had  been  transported  into  a  veritable  scene  from 
a  novel.  It  was  as  cold  as  ice.  and,  worse  than  that,  it 
was  funereal,"  he  added,  lifiinj;'  his  hand  theatrically,  and 
pausing.  "On  looking  shar])ly  and  coming  close  to  the 
bed,  I  finally  made  out  Madame  de  Merret,  thanks  to 
the  light  from  the  lamp  that  fell  on  the  pillows.  Iler  face 
was  as  yellow  as  wax  and  was  as  narrow  as  your  two 
hands  placed  together,  palm  to  palm.  Madame  the 
Countess  wore  a  lace  caj),  under  which  her  hair  was 
visible,  beautiful  but  perfectly  white.  She  was  sitting 
upright,  although  with  seeming  difficulty.  Her  great 
black  eyes,  dulled  by  her  fever  doubtless,  and  already 
nearly  dead,  scarcely  moved  under  the  projections  where 
one's  eyebrows  grow.  .  .  here  "  (indicating  the  arch  over 
the  eyes).  "Her  forehead  was  damp;  her  emaciated 
hands  looked  like  bones  covered  with  soft  skin;  her 
veins  and  her  muscles  were  distinctly  visible.  She  must 
at  one  time  have  been  very  beautiful;  but  at  that  mo- 
ment the  sight  of  her  aroused  in  me  an  emotion  that  I 
cannot  define.  Never,  according  to  the  opinion  of  those 
who  laid  her  out  for  burial,  had  a  living  creature  become 
so  thin.  In  a  word,  it  was  a  horrible  sight !  Disease  had 
so  wasted  her  that  she  was  a  mere  shadow.  Her  lips, 
pale  blue  in  color,  did  not  seem  to  move  as  she  spoke 
to  me.  Although  my  profession  has  made  me  familiar 
with  such  scenes  as  this,  frecjuently  coming  as  I  do  to 
the  bedside  of  the  dying  to  record  their  last  wishes,  I 
confess  that  the  weeping  families  and  the  agonies  that 
I  have  witnessed  have  been  as  nothing  in  comparison 
with  the  sight  of  this  solitary  and  silent  woman  in  that 
great  chateau. 

"There  was  not  a  sound  in  the  room.  I  did  not  notice 
even  the  slight  rising  and  falling  of  the  sheets  that  should 


350  GENERAL 

have  attended  the  sick  woman's  breathing,  and  I  stood 
perfectly  quiet,  gazing  at  her  in  a  kind  of  stupor.  I  feel 
this  minute  as  if  I  were  still  there.  Finally  her  great  eyes 
flickered ;  she  tried  to  lift  her  right  hand,  but  it  fell  back 
upon  the  bed,  and  these  words  came  from  her  lips  like  a 
breath,  for  her  voice  could  no  longer  be  called  a  voice: 

"*I  have  been  waiting  for  you  with  great  impa- 
tience.' 

"Her  cheeks  flushed.  To  tell  the  truth,  monsieur,  it 
was  an  effort  for  her. 

"'Madame,'  said  I. 

"She  motioned  me  to  be  silent.  At  this  the  old  woman 
who  waited  on  her  arose  and  whispered  in  my  ear: 

"'Do  not  talk;  Madame  is  not  in  a  state  to  hear  the 
slightest  sound;  and  anything  that  you  said  might  agi- 
tate her.' 

"I  sat  down.  After  some  moments,  Madame  de 
Merret  summoned  all  her  remaining  strength  in  an  ef- 
fort to  move  her  right  arm,  and  thrust  it  with  infinite 
difficulty  beneath  her  bolster.  She  was  quiet  for  just  an 
instant;  then  she  made  a  last  effort  to  withdraw  her 
hand,  and,  when  she  had  taken  out  a  sealed  paper,  drops 
of  sweat  fell  from  her  forehead. 

"'I  entrust  you  with  my  will,'  she  said.  'Oh!  my 
God!   Oh!' 

"That  was  all.  She  grasped  a  crucifix  that  was  lying 
on  the  bed,  quickly  placed  it  to  her  lips,  and  —  was 
dead. 

"The  expression  of  her  staring  eyes  still  makes  me 
shudder  when  I  think  of  them.  She  must  have  suffered 
greatly!  There  was  a  flash  of  joy  in  her  dying  glance, 
—  the  look  remained  fixed  in  her  dead  eyes. 

"I  carried  the  will  away  with  me;  and  when  it  was 
opened  I  saw  that  Madame  de  Merret  had  made  me  her 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  851 

executor.  Except  for  certain  private  legacies,  she  be- 
queathed her  entire  estate  to  the  hospital  at  Vendome. 
But  her  provisions  with  respect  to  La  Grande  Breteche 
were  as  follows:  She  bade  me  leave  the  house  for  a  pe- 
riod of  fifty  years  from  the  time  of  her  death  just  as  it 
was  at  the  moment  when  she  died,  forbidding  any  one 
whatever  to  enter  the  rooms,  forbidding  the  slightest 
repairs,  and  even  setting  aside  a  fund  for  securing  keep- 
ers, should  it  be  necessary,  in  order  to  insure  the  complete 
execution  of  her  wishes.  At  the  expiration  of  that  time, 
if  the  purpose  of  the  executrix  had  been  fulfilled,  the 
house  is  to  belong  to  my  heirs  —  for  monsieur  knows 
that  notaries  cannot  accept  legacies;  otherwise  La 
Grande  Breteche  reverts  to  whoever  is  entitled  to  it, 
but  conditionally  upon  compliance  with  the  terms  in- 
dicated in  a  codicil  which  is  attached  to  the  will,  and 
which  is  not  to  be  opened  until  the  expiration  of  the 
aforesaid  fifty  years.  The  will  has  not  been  contested; 
accordingly  ..." 

At  this  point  the  tall  notary,  without  finishing  his 
sentence,  glanced  at  me  with  a  triumphant  air,  and  I 
delighted  him  with  a  few  complimentary  remarks. 

"Monsieur,"  said  I  to  him  in  conclusion,  "you  have 
made  so  vivid  an  impression  upon  me  that  I  can  fairly 
see  that  dying  woman,  paler  than  the  very  sheets  upon 
her  bed;  her  gleaming  eyes  fill  me  with  terror;  and  to- 
night I  shall  dream  of  her.  But  you  must  have  formed 
some  conjectures  as  to  the  bequests  contained  in  this 
odd  will." 

"Monsieur,"  he  replied,  with  a  comical  air  of  reserve, 
"I  never  allow  myself  to  judge  of  the  conduct  of  persons 
who  have  honored  me  with  the  gift  of  a  diamond." 

I  soon  loosened  the  tongue  of  the  conscientious  Yen- 
dome  notary,  and  he  communicated  to  me,  not  with- 


352  GENERAL 

out  long  digressions,  his  observations  regarding  the  wise 
politicians  of  both  sexes  whose  decrees  constitute  the 
law  in  Vendome.  But  his  opinions  were  so  inconsistent 
and  so  diffuse  that  I  nearly  fell  asleep,  in  spite  of  the 
interest  that  I  felt  in  the  authentic  history  that  he  had 
related  to  me.  The  dull  and  monotonous  voice  of  the 
man,  accustomed  as  he  no  doubt  was  to  listen  to  himself 
and  to  make  his  clients  and  his  fellow  citizens  listen  to 
him,  triumphed  over  my  curiosity.  Fortunately  he  took 
his  departure. 

"Ah,  monsieur,"  said  he  to  me  on  the  stairs,  "a  good 
many  people  would  like  to  live  forty -five  years  longer; 
but,  just  a  moment!"  —  and  with  a  shrewd  air  he  placed 
his  right  forefinger  on  the  side  of  his  nose  as  if  to  say, 
'Pay  careful  heed  to  this!'  —  "But  to  do  that,  to  do 
that,"  said  he,  "one  must  not  be  already  sixty  years  old." 

Aroused  from  my  apathy  by  this  shaft,  which  the 
notary  considered  very  witty,  I  closed  the  door;  then  I 
sat  down  in  my  easy-chair  and  placed  my  feet  on  the 
andirons  in  the  fireplace.  I  was  engaged  in  the  delight- 
ful occupation  of  composing,  in  fancy,  a  romance  after 
the  Radcliffe  style,  based  on  the  judicial  data  fur- 
nished by  Monsieur  Regnault,  when  the  knob  of  my 
door  was  gently  turned  by  a  woman's  hand  and  the  door 
itself  opened.  I  saw  the  figure  of  my  landlady,  a  merry, 
good-natured  creature,  who  had  missed  her  calling;  she 
was  a  Fleming  and  ought  to  have  been  a  figure  in  a  pic- 
ture by  Teniers. 

"Well,  monsieur,"  said  she  to  me,  "of  course  Monsieur 
Regnault  has  repeated  to  you  his  story  about  La  Grande 
Breteche." 

"Yes,  Mother  Lepas." 

"What  did  he  tell  you?" 

I  recounted  to  her  in  a  few  words  the  gloomy  and  chill- 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  353 

ing  story  of  Madame  de  Merret.  At  every  sentence  my 
landlady  tossed  her  head  and  looked  at  me  with  an  inn- 
keeper's shrewdness,  —  a  happy  medium,  as  it  were, 
between  the  instinct  of  the  gendarme,  tlie  craftiness  of 
the  spy,  and  the  cunning  of  the  tradesman. 

"My  dear  Madame  Lepas,"  I  added  in  conclusion, 
"you  seem  to  know  something  more.  Eh?  If  not,  why 
did  you  come  up  to  my  room?" 

"Oh,  on  the  word  of  an  honest  woman,  as  true  as  my 
name  is  Lepas  ..." 

"Don't  swear;  your  eyes  are  big  with  a  secret.  You 
knew  Monsieur  de  Merret.  What  sort  of  man  was  he?" 

"Bless  my  soul!  Monsieur  de  Merret  was  a  fine-look- 
ing man,  but  you  never  saw  the  entire  length  of  him,  he 
was  so  tall !  He  was  a  dignified  gentleman;  he  came  from 
Picardy ;  and,  as  we  say  here,  his  head  was  right  under 
his  cap.  He  paid  all  his  bills  that  he  might  n't  have 
trouble  with  any  one.  He  was  full  of  spirits,  do  you 
understand?  We  women  all  found  him  very  agreeable." 

"BecaUvSe  he  was  full  of  spirits?"  said  I. 

"  Possibly,"  said  she.  "  Take  my  word  for  it,  monsieur, 
a  man  must,  indeed,  have  had  something  before  him, 
as  the  saying  is,  if  he  was  to  win  Madame  de  Merret, 
who,  without  wishing  to  cast  any  reflections  on  others, 
was  the  most  beautiful  and  the  richest  woman  about 
Vendome.  She  had  an  income  of  nearly  twenty  thousand 
francs  a  year.  The  whole  town  was  at  the  wedding.  The 
bride  was  pretty,  a  general  favorite,  a  jewel  of  a  girl. 
Ah,  they  made  a  fine  couple  at  the  time!" 

"Was  their  marriage  happy?" 

"Alas!  Yes  and  no,  as  far  as  one  can  guess;  for,  as 
you  may  imagine,  we  others  did  n't  live  hand  in  glove 
with  them!  Madame  de  Merret  was  a  kind  woman, 
very  pretty,  and,  perhaps,  sometimes  suffered  from  her 


354  GENERAL 

husband's  quick  temper;  but,  although  he  was  rather 
reserved,  we  liked  him.  Bah !  it  was  natural  enough  for 
one  in  his  position  to  be  so !  When  a  man  is  a  nobleman, 
you  know  ..." 

"Yet  there  must  have  been  some  catastrophe  to  sepa- 
rate Madame  and  Monsieur  de  Merret  so  suddenly, 
was  n't  there?" 

"I  did  n't  say  that  there  was  any  catastrophe,  mon- 
sieur.   I  don't  know  anything  about  one." 

"Good!  Now  I  am  sure  that  you  know  all  about  it." 

"Well,  monsieur,  I'll  tell  you  the  whole  story.  When 
I  saw  Monsieur  Regnault  go  up  to  your  room,  I  knew 
well  enough  that  he  would  talk  to  you  about  Madame 
de  Merret  in  connection  with  La  Grande  Breteche. 
Tliat  suggested  to  me  the  idea  of  consulting  monsieur, 
who  seems  to  be  a  man  of  discretion,  and  incapable  of 
betraying  a  poor  woman  like  me,  who  has  never  injured 
any  one,  but  who,  notwithstanding,  is  uneasy  in  her  con- 
science. Hitherto  I've  not  dared  tell  my  story  to  the 
people  about  here;  they're  all  gossips,  and  their  tongues 
are  as  sharp  as  needles.  And  finally,  monsieur,  I've 
never  had  a  guest  before  who  has  stayed  at  my  house  so 
long  as  you  have,  and  to  whom  I  could  tell  the  story  of 
the  fifteen  thousand  francs." 

"My  dear  Madame  Lepas,"  I  rejoined,  interrupting 
her  torrent  of  words,  "if  your  confidence  is  going  to  com- 
promise me,  I  would  not  have  you  entrust  me  with  it  for 
the  world." 

"Don't  you  be  afraid,"  she  interrupted.  "You'll  see." 

My  landlady's  eagerness  led  me  to  believe  that  I  was 
not  the  only  one  to  whom  she  had  confided  the  secret 
of  which  I  was  about  to  become  the  sole  guardian,  and 
I  gave  her  my  attention. 

"Monsieur,"  she  began,  "when    the  Emperor  sent 


LA.  GRANDE  BRETECHE  S55 

here  certain  Spanish  prisoners  of  war,  as  well  as  some 
others,  the  Government  quartered  on  me  a  young 
Spaniard  who  had  been  sent  to  Vendome  on  parole. 
In  spite  of  his  parole,  however,  he  used  to  go  to  the  Pre- 
fect every  day  and  report.  He  was  a  grandee  of  Spain; 
that  much  at  the  very  least.  He  had  an  'os'  and  a  'dia* 
in  his  name,  something  like  Bogos  de  Feredia.  1  have  it 
written  in  my  books;  you  can  read  it  if  you  like.  Oh,  he 
was  a  handsome  young  fellow  for  a  Spaniard,  who,  they 
tell  me,  are  an  ugly  lot.  He  was  n't  more  than  five  feet 
three  or  four  in  height,  but  had  a  good  figure ;  his  hands 
were  small,  and  he  was  very  careful  of  them.  Ah!  You 
ought  to  have  seen  them.  He  had  as  many  brushes  for 
his  hands  as  a  woman  has  for  her  entire  toilet.  He  had 
thick  black  hair,  a  bright  eye,  and  a  copper-colored 
complexion,  but  I  liked  it  all  the  same.  He  had  the  finest 
linen  I  've  ever  seen,  and  I  've  had  princesses  in  this  house, 
and,  among  other  notables.  General  Bertrand,  the  Duke 
and  the  Duchess  d'Abrantes,  Monsieur  Decazes,  and 
the  King  of  Spain.  He  did  n't  eat  much,  but  he  had  such 
a  kind  and  refined  manner  about  him  that  you  could  n't 
find  any  fault  with  him  for  it.  Oh,  I  had  a  great  affec- 
tion for  him,  although  he  did  n't  speak  four  words  a 
day,  and  it  was  impossible  to  draw  him  into  conversa- 
tion; if  any  one  said  a  word  to  him,  he  made  no  reply.  It 
was  a  whim,  a  fad,  that  they  all  have,  so  I  am  told.  He 
used  to  read  his  breviary  like  a  priest;  he  went  to  mass 
and  to  all  the  services  regularly.  Where  did  he  sit? 
(We've  thought  of  that  since.)  Well,  about  two  steps 
from  Madame  de  Merret's  chapel.  As  he  took  a  seat 
there  the  first  time  he  came  to  church  no  one  thought 
that  there  was  any  design  in  it.  Besides,  he  never  took 
his  nose  out  of  his  book,  the  poor  young  man!  In  the 
evening  he  used  to  walk  on  the  mountain,  among  the 


356  GENERAL 

ruins  of  the  chateau.  It  was  the  poor  fellow's  only 
recreation;  the  place  reminded  him  of  his  own  country. 
They  say  that  Spain  is  full  of  mountains! 

"  After  the  first  few  days  of  his  imprisonment,  he  began 
to  stay  out  late.    I  grew  uneasy  when  I  did  n't  see  him 
back  by  midnight;  but  we  all  got  accustomed  to  this 
whim  of  his;  he  would  take  the  key  of  the  house  with 
him,  and  we  soon  stopped  sitting  up.    He  lodged  in  a 
house  of  ours  on  the  Rue  des  Casernes.  Some  time  after- 
ward one  of  our  stable  boys  said  that  one  evening,  as  he 
was  going  to  water  the  horses,  he  thought  he  saw  our 
Spanish  grandee  swimming  far  out  in  the  river,  like  a 
fish.    When  he  came  back  home  I  told  him  to  look  out 
for  the  river-grass,  and  he  seemed  annoyed  at  having 
been  seen  in  the  water. 
/       "Finally,  one  day,  monsieur,  —  or,  rather,  one  morn- 
ing, —  we  did  n't  find  him  in  his  room;  and  he  did  n't 
come  back.    In  hunting  everywhere  for  him  I  found  a 
note  in  his  table-drawer  and  also  fifty  Spanish  gold- 
pieces,  the  kind  they  call  'portugaises,'  amounting  to 
about  five  thousand  francs,  and,  besides  that,  in  a  little 
sealed  box,  ten  thousand  francs'  worth  of  diamonds.  The 
note  said  that  in  case  he  did  n't  return,  he  left  the  money 
and  the  diamonds  in  trust  to  found  masses  in  thanks- 
giving to  God  for  his  escape  and  his  salvation. 

"In  those  days  my  husband  was  still  alive,  and  he 
hurried  out  to  search  for  him,  and  here  is  the  odd  thing 
about  the  story!  He  brought  back  with  him  the  Span- 
iard's clothes,  which  he  found  under  a  big  stone  near  a 
sort  of  pile  along  the  edge  of  the  river,  on  the  side  of  the 
chateau,  nearly  opposite  La  Grande  Breteche.  My  hus- 
band had  gone  there  so  early  in  the  morning  that  no 
one  had  seen  him;  so  after  we  read  the  letter,  he  burned 
the  clothes,  and,  in  accordance  with  Count  Feredia's 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECIIE  357 

wishes  we  said  that  he  had  escaped.  The  Subprefcct  set 
the  whole  pohcc  force  on  his  track;  but,  bless  me!  they 
never  caught  him.  Lepas  thought  that  the  Spaniard 
had  drowned  himself;  but,  for  my  own  part,  monsieur, 
I  don't  think  so  at  all;  on  the  other  hand,  I  do  believe 
that  his  disappearance  was  connected  in  some  way  with 
Madame  de  Merret,  especially  as  Rosalie  has  told  me 
that  the  crucifix,  which  her  mistress  was  so  attached  to 
that  she  had  it  buried  with  her,  was  made  of  ebony  and 
silver,  and,  during  the  first  days  of  his  stay.  Monsieur 
Feredia  owned  one  made  of  ebony  and  silver,  which  I 
never  set  eyes  on  again. 

"Now,  monsieur,  is  n't  it  true  that  I  have  n't  any  rea- 
son to  worry  about  keeping  the  Spaniard's  fifteen  thou- 
sand francs,  and  don't  they  belong  to  me.'' " 

"Surely,"  said  I;  "but  have  you  never  tried  to  ques- 
tion Rosalie.''" 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed,  monsieur!  But,  would  you  believe 
it?  —  thai  girl  is  like  a  stone  wall.  She  knows  some- 
thing; but  it's  impossible  to  make  her  tell  it." 

After  a  few  moments'  further  conversation,  my  land- 
lady left  me  a  prey  to  vague  and  indefinite  thoughts,  to 
romantic  curiosity,  to  a  sort  of  religious  terror  such  as 
you  feel  in  a  dark  church  at  night  when  you  can  just  make 
out  a  dim  ray  of  light  far  away  under  the  lofty  arches; 
an  indistinct  figure  glides  about,  a  dress  or  a  surplice  rus- 
tles .  .  .  and  you  shudder.  La  Grande  Breteche,  with 
its  tall  weeds,  its  barred  windows,  its  lonely  rooms,  sud- 
denly assumed  fantastic  proportions  in  my  eyes.  I  tried 
to  make  my  way  into  the  ghostly  mansion  and  seek 
there  the  solution  of  this  dark  story,  of  this  threefold 
tragedy.  Rosalie  became  to  me  the  most  interesting 
personage  in  Vendome.  Upon  closely  observing  her,  I 
discovered  indications  of  some  internal  uneasiness  in 


358  GENERAL 

spite  of  the  robust  health  that  irradiated  her  plump 
cheeks;  in  her  heart  were  the  seeds  of  remorse  or  of  hope; 
her  manner  betrayed  some  secret,  just  as  does  that  of 
fanatics  who  give  themselves  up  to  lives  of  prayer  or 
that  of  the  mother  who  has  killed  her  child  and  never 
ceases  to  hear  its  last  cry.  Yet  Rosalie's  attitude  was 
naive  and  simple;  her  stupid  smile  had  nothing  of  the 
criminal  in  it,  and  you  would  have  declared  her  innocent 
merely  to  look  at  the  huge  neckerchief  with  the  red 
and  blue  spots  that  covered  her  plump  bust  and  was 
folded  about  her  neck  and  held  together  by  her  gown 
of  white  and  violet  striped  material. 

"No,"  thought  I;  "I  will  not  leave  Vendome  without 
learning  the  whole  story  of  La  Grande  Breteche.  To 
gain  this  end,  I  will,  if  absolutely  necessary,  become 
Rosalie's  lover." 

"Rosalie,"  said  I  one  evening. 

"Yes,  monsieur." 

"You  are  not  married?" 

She  started  slightly. 

"Oh,  I  shan't  want  for  husbands  when  I  take  a  fancy 
to  be  miserable! "  said  she  with  a  laugh. 

She  at  once  got  the  better  of  her  nervousness,  for  all 
women,  from  the  grand  lady  down  to  the  servant  at  a 
tavern,  have  a  self-possession  that  is  quite  natural  to 
them. 

"You  are  fresh  enough,  attractive  enough,  not  to 
lack  lovers !  But,  tell  me,  Rosalie,  how  came  you  to  be 
a  tavern-maid  when  you  got  through  with  Madame  de 
Merret?    She  left  you  money  enough,  did  n't  she?" 

"Oh,  yes.  But,  monsieur,  I  have  the  best  place  in 
Vendome." 

This  was  one  of  those  replies  that  judges  and  lawyers 
call  "dilatory."  Rosalie  seemed  to  me  to  occupy  in  this 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  859 

romantic  story  a  position  like  the  middle  square  on  a 
chessboard:  she  was  at  the  very  center  of  the  interest,  at 
the  heart  of  the  secret;  to  me  she  seemed  involved  in  the 
complication  itself.  It  was  no  longer  a  prosaic  matter 
of  gaining  the  girl's  affection;  she  represented  the  last 
chapter  of  a  romance,  and  accordingly,  from  this  mo- 
ment, Rosalie  became  the  object  of  my  undivided  atten- 
tion. Upon  close  study  I  discovered  in  her,  as  we  do  in 
all  women  whom  we  observe  at  close  range,  a  number 
of  excellent  traits.  She  was  neat  and  particular  about 
her  person ;  she  was  good-looking  —  that  goes  without 
saying;  she  had  many  of  the  attractions  that  we  are 
accustomed  to  attribute  to  a  woman,  whatever  be  her 
social  status,  when  she  becomes  the  object  of  our  notice. 

Some  two  weeks  after  the  notary's  visit,  one  evening, 
—  or,  rather,  one  morning,  for  it  was  early,  —  I  said  to 
Rosalie : 

"Now  tell  me  all  about  Madame  de  Merret." 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  "don't  ask  me  to  do  that.  Mon- 
sieur Horace!" 

Her  pretty  face  fell,  her  high,  quick  color  paled,  and 
her  eyes  lost  their  girlish  brilliancy. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "since  you  will  have  it,  I'll  tell, 
you;  but  you  must  be  sure  to  keep  my  secret!" 

"All  right!  My  dear,  I  will  keep  all  your  secrets  on 
the  honor  of  a  thief,  and  there's  nothing  more  trust- 
worthy than  that." 

"If  it's  all  the  same  to  you,"  said  she,  "I  prefer  your 
own." 

Thereupon  she  readjusted  her  neckerchief  and  settled 
herself  into  the  posture  of  a  story-teller;  for  an  attitude 
of  confidence  and  security  is  quite  essential  in  telling  a 
story.  The  best  stories  are  always  told  at  a  certain 
hour  and  at  table,  just  as  we  all  are  at  this  moment.  No 


360  GENERAL 

one  ever  told  a  story  well  when  standing  or  when  hungry. 
—  But  if  I  had  to  reproduce  accurately  Rosalie's  dif- 
fuse style  of  expression,  a  volume  would  hardly  be  suf- 
ficient. 

Now  as  her  confused  account  of  the  event  was  mid- 
way between  the  garrulity  of  the  notary  and  that  of 
Madame  Lepas,  just  as  the  means  of  a  proportion  in 
arithmetic  lie  midway  between  the  two  extremes,  I  must 
relate  it  to  you  in  a  few  words.   Therefore  I  abridge. 

Madame  de  Merret's  bedchamber  in  La  Grande  Bre- 
teche  was  on  the  ground  floor.  A  small  closet  about  four 
feet  deep,  built  into  the  wall,  served  her  as  wardrobe. 
Three  months  before  the  evening,  the  events  which  I  am 
about  to  relate,  Madame  de  Merret  had  been  seriously 
indisposed,  so  that  her  husband  had  left  her  by  herself 
in  her  own  room  and  had  taken  a  chamber  on  the  floor 
above  for  his  own  bedroom.  By  one  of  those  chances 
that  no  one  can  foresee,  on  the  evening  of  which  we  have 
already  spoken,  he  had  returned  home  later  than  usual 
from  the  club  where  it  was  his  custom  to  go  to  read  the 
papers  and  to  discuss  politics  with  his  neighbors.  His 
wife,  supposing  that  he  had  already  come  in,  had  retired, 
and  was  asleep.  But  the  invasion  of  France  had  been 
the  subject  of  a  very  animated  discussion;  and  the  game 
of  billiards  had  been  very  exciting,  —  he  had  lost  forty 
francs,  an  enormous  sum  in  Vendome,  where  every  one 
hoards  money,  and  where  the  daily  routine  of  life  is 
characterized  by  a  simplicity  altogether  praiseworthy, 
resulting,  it  may  be,  in  a  spirit  of  true  content  quite  un- 
known to  a  Parisian. 

For  some  time  it  had  been  Monsieur  de  Merret's  cus- 
tom to  satisfy  himself  with  asking  Rosalie  if  his  wife  had 
retired;  and,  uj)on  the  young  woman's  invariable  answer 
in  the  affirmative,  he  had  straightway  gone  to  his  own 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  3G1 

apartment  with  the  cheerfulness  begotten  of  habit  and 
confidence.  On  this  particular  occasion,  when  he  came 
in  the  whim  seized  him  to  go  into  Madame  de  Merret's 
room  to  tell  her  of  his  ill  luck,  and,  possibly  to  seek  con- 
solation. During  dinner  he  had  observed  that  his  wife 
was  quite  coquettishly  dressed;  on  the  way  home  from 
the  club  he  had  said  to  himself  that  she  seemed  to  be 
recovering  from  her  indisposition,  and  that  her  conva- 
lescence was  becoming  to  her,  —  and  he  observed  the 
fact  as  husbands  observe  everything,  —  too  late. 

Instead  of  calling  Rosalie,  who  at  that  moment  was 
busy  in  the  kitchen  watching  the  cook  and  the  coach- 
man play  a  difficult  hand  at  brisque.  Monsieur  de  Merret 
directed  his  steps  toward  his  wife's  apartment,  guided 
by  the  light  of  his  lantern  which  he  had  set  down  on  the 
top  of  the  stairs.  His  familiar  step  reechoed  through  the 
corridor.  Just  as  he  turned  the  key  of  his  wife's  room, 
he  thought  that  he  heard  close  the  door  of  the  closet 
that  I  have  mentioned  above;  but,  when  he  entered, 
Madame  de  Merret  was  alone,  standing  in  front  of  the 
fireplace.  Her  husband  naturally  assumed  that  Rosalie 
was  in  the  closet;  yet  a  suspicion  that  rang  in  his  ears  like 
the  sound  of  bells  filled  him  with  distrust;  he  glanced 
at  his  wife,  and  in  her  eyes  he  detected  a  trace  of  con- 
fusion and  apprehension. 

"You  are  returning  very  late,"  she  said. 

Her  voice,  usually  so  innocent  and  gracious,  seemed 
slightly  altered.  Monsieur  made  no  reply,  for  at  that 
moment  Rosalie  came  in.  This  was  like  a  thunderclap 
to  him.  He  paced  the  room,  mechanically  walking  from 
one  wind6w  to  another,  with  folded  arms. 

"Have  you  had  any  bad  news,  or  do  you  not  feel 
well?"  asked  his  wife  timidly,  as  Rosalie  undressed  her. 

He  made  no  reply. 


362  GENERAL 

"You  may  leave  the  room,"  said  Madame  de  Merret 
to  her  maid.    "I  will  arrange  my  curl-papers  myself." 

She  foresaw  an  unpleasant  scene  merely  from  the  ex- 
pression of  her  husband's  face,  and  she  preferred  to  be 
alone  with  him. 

When  Rosalie  had  gone,  or  was  supposed  to  have 
gone,  —  for  she  loitered  for  some  few  minutes  in  the 
corridor,  —  Monsieur  de  Merret  walked  up  to  his  wife 
and,  standing  before  her,  said  coldly: 

"Madame,  there  is  some  one  in  your  closet." 

She  looked  calmly  at  her  husband,  and  replied  inno- 
cently : 

"No,  monsieur." 

This  "no"  pierced  to  Monsieur  de  Merret's  very 
heart.  He  did  not  believe  it;  and  yet  his  wife  had  never 
appeared  purer  or  more  spiritual  than  at  this  very  mo- 
ment. He  rose  to  open  the  closet.  Madame  de  Merret 
seized  his  hand,  looked  reproachfully  at  him,  and  said 
in  a  strangely  agitated  voice: 

"  If  you  find  no  one,  you  understand  that  everything 
is  at  an  end  between  us!" 

The  indescribable  dignity  of  his  wife's  manner 
aroused  in  the  gentleman  a  profound  respect  for  her,  but 
he  suddenly  conceived  one  of  those  resolutions  that  need 
but  a  larger  stage  to  become  immortal. 

"No,  Josephine,"  said  he;  "I  will  not  go.  In  either 
case  we  should  be  separated  forever.  Listen !  I  know  the 
purity  of  your  heart,  and  I  know  that  you  live  like  a  saint. 
You  would  not  commit  a  mortal  sin  to  save  your  life." 

At  these  words  Madame  de  Merret  cast  a  haggard 
look  at  her  husband. 

"See!  Here  is  your  crucifix,"  said  he.  "Swear  to  me 
before  God  that  there  is  no  one  there;  I  will  believe  you; 
I  will  never  open  that  door." 


LA  GR.VNDE  BRETfiCHE  3C3 

Madame  de  Merret  took  the  crucifix  and  said,  "I 
swear  it." 

"Louder,"  said  her  husl)and;  "and  say  after  me:  *I 
swear  before  God  that  there  is  no  one  in  that  closet.'" 

She  repeated  it  without  a  sign  of  confusion. 

"Very  good,"  said  Monsieur  de  Merret  coldly;  and 
then,  after  a  moment  of  silence,  he  glanced  at  the  ebony 
crucifix  set  with  silver  and  added:  "You  have  there  a 
very  pretty  thing  that  I  never  saw  before;  it  is  very 
artistically  carved." 

"I  found  it  at  Duvivier's  shop.  When  that  companj- 
of  prisoners  passed  through  Vendome  last  year  he  bought 
it  of  a  Spanish  ecclesiastic." 

"Ah!"  said  Monsieur  de  Merret,  hanging  up  the  cru- 
cifix. 

And  he  rang  the  bell. 

Rosalie  was  not  slow  in  answering  the  summons. 
Monsieur  stepped  quickly  toward  her,  took  her  into  the 
recess  by  the  window  opening  upon  the  garden,  and  said 
in  a  low  tone: 

"I  know  that  you  and  Gorenflot  are  going  to  be  mar- 
ried, that  want  of  money  is  all  that  prevents  you  from 
setting  up  housekeeping,  and  that  you  have  told  him 
you  would  not  become  his  wife  until  he  could  see  his  way 
to  become  a  master  mason.  .  .  .  Well,  go  after  him;  tell 
him  to  come  here  with  his  trowel  and  his  tools.  IVIanage 
not  to  awaken  any  one  else  in  the  house.  His  fortune 
will  exceed  anything  that  you  have  expected,  unless  .  .  ." 
He  frowned. 

Rosalie  left  the  room,  but  he  called  her  back. 

"Here!  Take  my  pass-key,"  said  he.  Then  in  a 
voice  of  thimder  he  shouted  down  the  corridor,  "Jean!" 

Jean  who  was  both  his  coachman  and  confidential 
servant,  dropped  his  hand  at  brisque  and  came  up. 


364  GENERAL 

"  Go  to  bed,  all  of  you ! "  said  his  master;  and,  beckon- 
ing to  Jean,  he  added  in  a  low  tone: 

"  When  they  are  all  asleep,  —  asleep,  mind  you,  — 
let  me  know." 

Monsieur  de  Merret,  who,  while  he  was  issuing  his 
orders,  had  not  taken  his  eyes  from  his  wife,  quietly 
returned  to  her  side  by  the  fire,  and  began  to  tell  her 
the  details  of  the  game  of  billiards  and  of  the  discussion 
at  the  club.  When  Rosalie  returned,  she  found  Monsieur 
and  Madame  de  Merret  conversing  together  most  ami- 
cably. 

The  gentleman  had  recently  had  all  the  rooms  plas- 
tered that  composed  his  reception  suite  on  the  lower 
floor.  Plaster  is  quite  a  rare  thing  in  Vendome:  the  cost 
of  transportation  makes  it  very  expensive.  Monsieur  had 
ordered  a  large  quantity  of  it,  knowing  that  he  should 
always  be  able  to  find  a  purchaser  for  whatever  he  did 
not  make  use  of  himself.  This  circumstance  suggested  to 
him  the  plan  that  he  now  proceeded  to  put  into  operation, 

"Monsieur,  Gorenflot  is  here,"  said  Rosalie  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Let  him  enter,"  said  the  Picard  gentleman  aloud. 

Madame  de  Merret  turned  pale  when  she  saw  the 
mason. 

"  Gorenflot,"  said  her  husband,  "get  some  bricks  from 
the  carriage-house,  and  bring  enough  to  wall  up  the 
door  of  that  closet.  You  can  use  the  plaster  that  is  left 
over  to  cover  the  wall."  Then,  beckoning  Rosalie  and 
the  workman  to  him,  he  said,  "Listen,  Gorenflot;  you 
will  sleep  here  to-night.  But  to-morrow  morning  you 
shall  have  your  passports  to  go  abroad  to  a  city  that  I 
will  name.  I  will  give  you  six  thousand  francs  for  your 
journey.  You  will  remain  there -ten  years.  If  you  don't 
like  it  in  that  place,  you  can  settle  somewhere  else,  as 


LA  GRANDE  BRETECHE  366 

long  as  it  is  in  the  same  country.  You  will  go  by  way 
of  Paris,  where  you  will  wait  fcr  me.  There  I  guarantee 
to  give  you  six  thousand  francs  more,  payable  upon 
your  return,  provided  that  you  fulfill  the  conditions  of 
our  agreement.  For  this  amount  you  ought  to  keep  ab- 
solute silence  about  what  you  are  going  to  do  to-night. 
As  for  you,  Rosalie,  I  will  give  you  ten  thousand  francs, 
payable  on  your  wedding-day,  on  condition  of  your 
marrying  Gorenflot;  but  to  marry  him,  you  must  keep 
your  lips  sealed.    Otherwise  no  dower." 

"Rosalie,"  called  Madame  de  Merret,  "come  and  ar- 
range my  hair." 

Her  husband  quietly  walked  back  and  forth,  keeping 
his  eye  on  the  door,  the  mason,  and  his  wife,  but  without 
betraying  any  suspicion  that  might  appear  insulting. 
Gorenflot  was  obliged  to  make  some  noise.  At  a  moment 
when  the  mason  was  throwing  down  some  bricks  and 
while  her  husband  was  at  the  end  of  the  room,  Madame 
de  Merret  seized  the  opportunity  to  say  to  Rosalie: 

"A  thousand  francs  a  year  to  you,  child,  if  you  can 
whisper  Gorenflot  to  leave  a  crack  at  the  bottom." 
Then  aloud  she  calmly  said  to  her,  "Go,  help  him." 

Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Merret  remained  silent 
while  Gorenflot  was  engaged  in  walling  up  the  door. 
This  silence  was  intentional  on  the  gentleman's  part : 
he  did  not  wish  to  offer  to  his  wife  any  opportimity  of 
uttering  words  that  might  bear  a  double  meaning;  and 
on  Madame  de  Merret's  part  silence  was  a  matter  either 
of  prudence  or  of  pride. 

When  the  wall  was  half-finished,  the  crafty  mason 
seized  a  moment  while  Monsieur's  back  was  turned  and, 
with  his  pick,  broke  one  of  the  two  glass  windows  in  the 
door.  This  made  it  clear  to  Madame  de  Merret  that 
Rosalie  had  spoken  to  Gorenflot. 


3C6  GENERAL 

At  that  instant  all  three  of  them  saw  the  face  of  a 
man,  gloomy  and  dark,  a  man  with  black  hair,  and  fiery- 
eyes. 

Before  her  husband  could  turn  around,  the  unfortu- 
nate lady  had  time  to  make  a  motion  of  the  head  to  the 
stranger,  signifying  "Hope!" 

At  four  o'clock,  about  daybreak,  —  for  it  was  Septem- 
ber, —  the  work  was  complete.  The  mason  remained 
under  Jean's  charge,  and  Monsieur  de  Merret  passed 
the  night  in  his  wife's  room. 

The  next  morning  as  he  arose  he  said  carelessly: 

"Oh!  I  must  go  to  the  Mayor's  for  the  passports." 

He  put  on  his  hat,  took  three  steps  towards  the  door, 
turned,  and  took  down  the  crucifix. 

His  wife  trembled  with  joy. 

"He  will  go  to  Duvivier's,"  thought  she. 

As  soon  as  her  husband  was  out  of  the  house,  Madame 
de  Merret  ran  for  Rosalie;  then  in  a  dreadful  voice  she 
cried:  "The  pick!  The  pick!  To  work!  I  saw  yesterday 
how  Gorenflot  managed  it.  We  shall  have  time  to  make 
a  hole  and  fill  it  up  again." 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  Rosalie  brought  a  sharp- 
pointed  sort  of  tool  to  her  mistress,  who  with  incredible 
vigor  began  to  tear  down  the  wall.  She  had  already 
knocked  off  several  bricks,  when,  as  she  stepped  back  to 
strike  an  even  more  vigorous  blow,  she  saw  Monsieur 
de  Merret  standing  behind  her. 

She  fainted. 

"Place  Madame  upon  her  bed,"  said  the  gentleman 
icily. 

Foreseeing  what  would  occur  during  his  absence,  he 
had  set  a  trap  for  his  wife;  he  had  simply  written  to  the 
Mayor,  and  had  sent  word  to  Duvivier  to  come  to  the 
chateau. 


LA  GR.VNDE   BRETECIIE  367 

When  the  jeweler  arrived,  the  confusion  in  the  room 
had  just  been  repaired. 

"Duvivier,"  said  Monsieur,  "did  you  purchase  any 
crucifixes  of  the  Spaniards  who  passed  through  here?" 

"No,  monsieur." 

"Very  good.  I  thank  you,"  said  he,  with  a  tigerish 
glance  at  his  wife. 

"Jean,"  he  added,  turning  to  his  confidential  servant, 
"you  will  serve  my  meals  in  Madame  de  Merret's  cham- 
ber. She  is  ill,  and  I  shall  not  leave  her  until  she  has 
recovered  her  health." 

The  cruel  man  remained  near  his  wife  for  twenty 
days.  At  first,  when  a  slight  noise  was  audible  in  the 
closet  that  had  been  walled  up  and  Josephine  would 
have  endeavored  to  move  him  to  mercy  for  the  dying 
stranger,  he  did  not  allow  her  to  speak  a  single  word. 
He  merely  said: 

"You  have  sworn  on  the  cross  that  no  one  was  there!'* 


THE  BIRTHMARK^ 

BY  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

The  Birthmark  offers  a  tyjiical  example  of  the  short-story, 
as  that  form  of  narrative  exists  in  modern  literature.  In  this 
type  unity  is  the  controlling  element.  The  aim  of  the  short- 
story  has  been  defined  as  the  endeavor  "to  produce  a  single 
narrative  effect  with  the  greatest  economy  of  means  that  is 
consistent  with  the  utmost  emphasis."  ^  It  is  a  story,  to  use 
the  words  of  Stevenson,  that  "from  all  its  sentences  will  echo 
and  reecho  its  own  controlling  thought;  to  this  must  every 
incident  and  character  contribute;  the  style  must  be  pitched 
in  unison  with  this;  and  if  anywhere  there  is  a  word  that 
looks  another  way,  the  story  would  be  better  without  it." 
Hawthorne's  Notebook  abounds  with  memoranda  of  narrative 
germs  that  are  capable  of  development  into  short-stories  as 
thus  defined.  Among  such  memoranda  we  find  the  following: 
"A  person  to  be  the  death  of  his  beloved  in  trying  to  raise  her. 
to  more  than  mortal  perfection."  Here  we  have  the  "control- 
ling thought,"  which,  duly  elaborated,  has  resulted  in  the  fol- 
lowing short-story. 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  last  century  there  lived  a 
man  of  science,  an  eminent  proficient  in  every  branch 
of  natural  philosophy,  who  not  long  before  our  story 
opens  had  made  experience  of  a  spiritual  affinity  more 
attractive  than  any  chemical  one.  He  had  left  his  labora- 
tory to  the  care  of  an  assistant,  cleared  his  fine  coun- 
tenance from  the  furnace  smoke,  washed  the  stain  of 
acids  from  his  fingers,  and  persuaded  a  beautiful  woman 
to  become  his  wife.  In  those  days  when  the  compara- 
tively recent  discovery  of  electricity  and  other  kindred 

'  From  Hawthorne's  Complete  Works.    Published  by  Houghton 
MifBin  Company. 

^  Clayton  Hamilton,  Maieriala  and  Methods  of  Fiction. 


THE  BIRTHMARK  369 

mysteries  of  Nature  seemed  to  open  paths  into  the 
ref:;ion  of  miracle,  it  was  not  unusual  for  the  love  of 
science  to  rival  the  love  of  woman  in  its  depth  and  ab- 
sor})ing  energy.  The  higher  intellect,  the  imagination, 
the  sj)irit,  and  even  the  heart  might  all  find  their  congen- 
ial aliment  in  pursuits  \\  hich,  as  some  of  their  ardent 
votaries  believed,  would  ascend  from  one  step  of  power- 
ful intelligence  to  another,  imtil  the  philosopher  should 
lay  his  hand  on  the  secret  of  creative  force  and  perhaps 
make  new  worlds  for  himself.  ^Ye  know  not  whether 
Aylmer  possessed  this  degree  of  faith  in  man's  ultimate 
control  over  Nature.  He  had  devoted  himself,  however, 
too  unreservedly  to  scientific  studies  ever  to  be  weaned 
from  them  by  any  second  passion.  His  love  for  his  young 
wife  might  prove  the  stronger  of  the  two;  but  it  could 
only  be  by  intertwining  itself  with  his  love  of  science, 
and  uniting  the  strength  of  the  latter  to  his  own. 

Such  a  union  accordingly  took  place,  and  was  at- 
tended with  truly  remarkable  consequences  and  a  deeply 
impressive  moral.  One  day,  very  soon  after  their  mar- 
riage, Aylmer  sat  gazing  at  his  wife  with  a  trouble  in  his 
countenance  that  grew  stronger  until  he  spoke. 

"Georgiana,"  said  he,  "has  it  never  occurred  to  you 
that  the  mark  upon  your  cheek  might  be  removed?" 

"No,  indeed,"  said  she,  smiling;  but  perceiving  the 
seriousness  of  his  manner,  she  blushed  deei)ly.  "To  tell 
you  the  truth  it  has  been  so  often  called  a  charm  that  I 
was  simple  enough  to  imagine  it  might  be  so." 

"Ah,  upon  another  face  perhajjs  it  might,"  replied  her 
husband;  "but  never  on  yours.  No,  dearest  Georgi- 
ana,  you  came  so  nearly  perfect  from  the  hand  of  Nature 
that  this  slightest  defect,  which  we  hesitate  whether 
to  term  a  defect  or  a  beauty,  shocks  me,  as  being  the 
visible  mark  of  earthly  imperfection." 


370  GENERAL 

"Shocks  you,  my  husband!"  cried  Georgiana, 
deeply  hurt;  at  first  reddening  with  momentary  anger, 
but  then  bursting  into  tears.  "Then  why  did  you  take 
me  from  my  mother's  side?  You  cannot  love  what 
shocks  you!" 

''^To  explain  this  conversation  it  must  be  mentioned 
that  in  the  center  of  Georgiana's  left  cheek  there  was  a 
singular  mark,  deeply  interwoven,  as  it  were,  with  the 
texture  and  substance  of  her  face.    In  the  usual  state 
of  her  complexion  —  a  healthy  though  delicate  bloom 
—  the  mark  wore  a  tint  of  deeper  crimson,  which  im- 
perfectly defined  its  shape  amid  the  surrounding  rosi- 
ness.    AYhen  she  blushed  it  gradually  became  more  in- 
distinct, and  finally  vanished  amid  the  triumphant  rush 
of  blood  that  bathed  the  whole  cheek  with  its  brilliant 
glow.  But  if  any  shifting  motion  caused  her  to  turn  pale 
there  was  the  mark  again,  a  crimson  stain  upon  the 
snow,  in  what  Aylmer  sometimes  deemed  an  almost 
fearful  distinctness.     Its  shape  bore  not  a  little  simi- 
larity  to   the  human   hand,  though   of   the   smallest 
pygmy  size.    Georgiana's  lovers  were  wont  to  say  that 
some  fairy  at  her  birth  had  laid  her  tiny  hand  upon  the 
infant's  cheek,  and  left  this  impress  there  m  token  of 
the  magic  endowments  that  were  to  give  her  such  sway 
over  all  hearts.     Many  a  desperate  swain  would  have 
risked  life  for  the  privilege  of  pressing  his  lips  to  the  mys- 
terious hand.    It  must  not  be  concealed,  however,  that 
the  impression  wrought  by  this  fairy  sign  manual  varied 
exceedingly,  according  to  the  difference  of  temperament 
in  the  beholders.    Some  fastidious  persons  —  but  they 
were  exclusively  of  her  own  sex  —  affirmed  that  the 
bloody  hand,  as  they  chose  to  call  it,  quite  destroyed 
the  effect  of    Georgiana's  beauty,   and  rendered  her 
countenance  even  hideous.    But  it  would  be  as  reason- 


THE  BIRTHMARK  371 

able  to  say  that  one  of  those  small  blue  stains  which 
sometimes  occur  in  tlie  purest  statuary  marble  would 
convert  the  Eve  of  Powers  to  a  monster.  Masculine 
observers,  if  the  birthmark  did  not  heighten  their  ad- 
miration, contented  themselves  with  wishing  it  away, 
that  the  world  might  possess  one  living  specimen  of 
ideal  loveliness  without  the  semblance  of  a  flaw.  After 
his  marriage,  —  for  he  thought  little  or  nothing  of  the 
matter  before,  —  Aylmer  discovered  that  this  was  the 
case  with  himself. 

Had  she  been  less  beautiful,  —  if  Envy's  self  could 
have  found  aught  else  to  sneer  at,  —  he  might  have  felt 
his  affection  heightened  by  the  prettiness  of  this  mimic 
hand,  now  vaguely  portrayed,  now  lost,  now  stealing 
forth  again  and  glimmering  to  and  fro  with  every  pulse 
of  emotion  that  throbbed  within  her  heart;  but,  seeing 
her  otherwise  so  perfect,  he  found  this  one  defect  grow 
more  and  more  intolerable  with  every  moment  of  their 
united  lives.  It  was  the  fatal  flaw  of  humanity  which 
Nature,  in  one  shape  or  another,  stamps  ineffaceably  on 
all  her  productions,  either  to  imply  that  they  are  tem- 
porary and  finite,  or  that  their  perfection  must  be 
wrought  by  toil  and  pain.  The  crimson  hand  expressed 
the  includible  gripe  in  which  mortality  clutches  the 
highest  and  purest  of  earthly  mould,  degrading  them 
into  kindred  with  the  lowest,  and  even  with  the  very 
brutes,  like  whom  their  visible  frames  return  to  dust. 
In  this  manner,  selecting  it  as  the  symbol  of  his  wife's 
liability  to  sin,  sorrow,  decay,  and  death,  Aylmer 's 
somber  imagination  was  not  long  in  rendering  the  birth- 
mark a  frightful  object,  causing  him  more  trouble  and 
horror  than  ever  Georgiana's  beauty,  whether  of  soul 
or  sense,  had  given  him  delight. 

At  all  the  seasons  which  should  have  been  their  hap- 


y 


372  GENERAL 

piest,  he  invariably  and  without  intending  it,  nay,  in 
spite  of  a  purpose  to  the  contrary,  reverted  to  this  one 
disastrous  topic.  Trifling  as  it  at  first  appeared,  it  so 
connected  itself  with  innumerable  trains  of  thought 
and  modes  of  feeling  that  it  became  the  central  point 
of  all.  With  the  morning  twilight  Aylmer  opened  his 
eyes  upon  his  wife's  face  and  recognized  the  symbol  of 
imperfection;  and  when  they  sat  together  at  the  even- 
ing hearth  his  eyes  wandered  stealthily  to  her  cheek, 
and  beheld,  flickering  with  the  blaze  of  the  wood  fire, 
the  spectral  hand  that  wrote  mortality  where  he  would 
fain  have  worshiped.  Georgiana  soon  learned  to  shudder 
at  his  gaze.  It  needed  but  a  glance  with  the  peculiar 
expression  that  his  face  often  wore  to  change  the  roses 
of  her  cheek  into  a  deathlike  paleness,  amid  which  the 
crimson  hand  was  brought  strongly  out,  like  a  bas-relief 
of  ruby  on  the  whitest  marble. 

Late  one  night  when  the  lights  were  growing  dim, 
so  as  hardly  to  betray  the  stain  on  the  poor  wife's  cheek, 
she  herself  for  the  first  time,  voluntarily  took  up  the 
subject. 

"Do  you  remember,  my  dear  Aylmer,"  said  she, 
with  a  feeble  attempt  at  a  smile,  "have  you  any  recol- 
lection of  a  dream  last  night  about  this  odious  hand?" 

"None!  none  whatever!"  replied  Aylmer,  starting; 
but  then  he  added,  in  a  dry,  cold  tone,  affected  for  the 
sake  of  concealing  the  real  depth  of  his  emotion,  "I 
might  well  dream  of  it;  for  before  I  fell  asleep  it  had 
taken  a  pretty  firm  hold  of  my  fancy." 

"And  you  did  dream  of  it?"  continued  Georgiana, 
hastily;  for  she  dreaded  lest  a  gush  of  tears  should  inter- 
rupt what  she  had  to  say.  "A  terrible  dream!  I  wonder 
that  you  can  forget  it.  Is  it  possible  to  forget  this  one 
expression?  — *It  is  in  her  heart  now;  we  must  have  it 


THE  BIRTHMARK  373 

out!'  Reflect,  my  husband;  for  by  all  means  I  would 
have  you  recall  that  dream." 

The  mind  is  in  a  sad  state  when  Sleep,  the  all-in- 
volving, cannot  confine  her  specters  within  the  dim 
region  of  her  sway,  but  suffers  them  to  break  forth, 
affrighting  tliis  actual  life  with  secrets  that  perchance 
belong  to  a  deeper  one.  Aylmer  now  remembered  his 
dream.  He  had  fancied  himself  with  his  servant  Amina- 
dab,  attempting  an  operation  for  the  removal  of  the 
birthmark;  but  the  deeper  went  the  knife,  the  deeper 
sank  the  hand,  until  at  length  its  tiny  grasp  appeared 
to  have  caught  hold  of  Georgiana's  heart;  whence,  how- 
ever, her  husband  was  inexorably  resolved  to  cut  or 
wrench  it  away. 

When  the  dream  had  shaped  itself  perfectly  in  his 
memory,  Aylmer  sat  in  his  wife's  presence  with  a  guilty 
feeling.  Truth  often  finds  its  way  to  the  mind  close 
muffled  in  robes  of  sleep,  and  then  speaks  with  uncom- 
promising directness  of  matters  in  regard  to  which  we 
practice  an  unconscious  self-deception  during  our  wak- 
ing moments.  Until  now  he  had  not  been  aware  of  the 
tyrannizing  influence  acquired  by  one  idea  over  his 
mind,  and  of  the  lengths  which  he  might  find  in  his 
heart  to  go  for  the  sake  of  giving  himself  peace. 

"Aylmer,"  resumed  Georgiana,  solemnly,  "I  know 
not  what  may  be  the  cost  to  both  of  us  to  rid  me  of  this 
fatal  birthmark.  Perhaps  its  removal  may  cause  cure- 
less deformity;  or  it  may  be  the  stain  goes  as  deep  as 
life  itself.  Again :  do  we  know  that  there  is  a  possibility,  on 
any  terms,  of  unclasping  the  firm  grip  of  this  little  hand 
which  was  laid  upon  me  before  I  came  into  the  world.'*" 

"Dearest  Georgiana,  I  have  spent  nuich  thought 
upon  the  subject,"  hastily  interrupted  Aylmer.  "I  am 
convinced  of  the  perfect  practicability  of  its  removal." 


374  GENERAL 

"If  there  be  the  remotest  possibility  of  it,"  continued 
Georgiana,  "let  the  attempt  be  made  at  whatever  risk. 
Danger  is  nothing  to  me;  for  life,  while  this  hateful 
mark  makes  me  the  object  of  your  horror  and  disgust, 
—  life  is  a  burden  which  I  would  fling  down  with  joy. 
Either  remove  this  dreadful  hand,  or  take  my  wretched 
life!  You  have  deep  science.  All  the  world  bears  witness 
of  it.  You  have  achieved  great  wonders.  Cannot  you 
remove  this  little,  little  mark,  which  I  cover  with  the 
tips  of  two  small  fingers?  Is  this  beyond  your  power, 
for  the  sake  of  your  own  peace,  and  to  save  your  poor 
wife  from  madness.'*" 

"Noblest,  dearest,  tenderest  wife,"  cried  Aylmer, 
rapturously,  "doubt  not  my  power.  I  have  already 
given  this  matter  the  deepest  thought  —  thought  which 
might  almost  have  enlightened  me  to  create  a  being 
less  perfect  than  yourself.  Georgiana,  you  have  led 
me  deeper  than  ever  into  the  heart  of  science.  I  feel 
myself  fully  competent  to  render  this  dear  cheek  as 
faultless  as  its  fellow;  and  then,  most  beloved,  what 
will  be  ray  triumph  when  I  shall  have  corrected  what 
Nature  left  imperfect  in  her  fairest  work!  Even  Pyg- 
malion, when  his  sculptured  woman  assumed  life,  felt 
not  greater  ecstasy  than  mine  will  be." 

"It  is  resolved,  then,"  said  Georgiana,  faintly  smil- 
ing. "And,  Aylmer,  spare  me  not,  though  you  should 
find  the  birthmark  take  refuge  in  my  heart  at  last." 

Her  husband  tenderly  kissed  her  cheek  —  her  right 
cheek  —  not  that  which  bore  the  impress  of  the  crim- 
son hand. 

The  next  day  Aylmer  apprised  his  wife  of  a  plan  that 
he  had  formed  whereby  he  might  have  opportunity  for 
the  intense  thought  and  constant  watchfulness  which 
the  proposed  operation  would  require;  while  Georgiana, 


THE   BIRTHMiVRK  375 

likewise,  would  enjoy  the  perfect  repose  essential  to  its 
success.  They  were  to  seclude  themselves  in  the  ex- 
tensive apartments  occupied  by  Aylmer  as  a  labora- 
tory, and  where,  during  his  toilsome  youth,  he  had 
made  discoveries  in  the  elemental  powers  of  Nature 
that  had  roused  the  admiration  of  all  the  learned  socie- 
ties in  Europe.  Seated  calmly  in  this  laboratory,  the 
pale  philosopher  had  investigated  the  secrets  of  the 
highest  cloud  region  and  of  the  profoundest  mines;  he 
had  satisfied  himself  of  the  causes  that  kindled  and  kept 
alive  the  fires  of  the  volcano;  and  had  explained  the 
mystery  of  fountains,  and  how  it  is  that  they  gush  forth, 
some  so  bright  and  pure,  and  others  with  such  rich 
medicinal  virtues,  from  the  dark  bosom  of  the  earth. 
Here,  too,  at  an  earlier  period,  he  had  studied  the 
wonders  of  the  human  frame,  and  attempted  to  fathom 
the  very  process  by  which  Nature  assimilates  all  her 
precious  influences  from  earth  and  air,  and  from  the 
spiritual  world,  to  create  and  foster  man,  her  master- 
piece. The  latter  pursuit,  however,  Aylmer  had  long 
laid  aside  in  unwilling  recognition  of  the  truth  — 
against  which  all  seekers  sooner  or  later  stumble  — 
that  our  great  creative  Mother,  while  she  amuses  us 
with  apparently  working  in  the  broadest  sunshine,  is 
yet  severely  careful  to  keep  her  own  secrets,  and,  in 
spite  of  her  pretended  openness,  shows  us  nothing  biit 
results.  She  permits  us,  indeed,  to  mar,  but  seldom  to  \^ 
mend,  and,  like  a  jealous  patentee,  on  no  account  to 
make.  Now,  however,  Aylmer  resumed  these  half- 
forgotten  investigations;  not,  of  course,  with  such  hopes 
or  wishes  as  first  suggested  them;  but  because  they  in- 
volved much  physiological  truth  and  lay  in  the  path 
of  his  proposed  scheme  for  the  treatment  of  Georgiana. 
As  he  led  her  over  the  threshold  of  the  laboratory. 


376  GENERAL 

Georgiana  was  cold  and  tremulous.  Aylmer  looked 
cheerfully  into  her  face,  with  intent  to  reassure  her, 
but  was  so  startled  with  the  intense  glow  of  the  birth- 
mark upon  the  whiteness  of  her  cheek  that  he  could  not 
restrain  a  strong  convulsive  shudder.   His  wife  fainted. 

"Aminadab!  Aminadab!"  shouted  Aylmer,  stamp- 
ing violently  on  the  floor. 

Forthwith  there  issued  from  an  inner  apartment  a 
man  of  low  stature,  but  bulky  frame,  with  shaggy  hair 
hanging  about  his  visage,  which  was  grimed  with 
the  vapors  of  the  furnace.  This  personage  had  been 
Aylmer's  underworker  during  his  whole  scientific  ca- 
reer, and  was  admirably  fitted  for  that  office  by  his 
great  mechanical  readiness,  and  the  skill  with  which, 
while  incapable  of  comprehending  a  single  principle, 
he  executed  all  the  details  of  his  master's  experiments. 
With  his  vast  strength,  his  shaggy  hair,  his  smoky 
aspect,  and  the  indescribable  earthiness  that  incrusted 
him,  he  seemed  to  represent  man's  physical  nature; 
while  Aylmer's  slender  figure,  and  pale,  intellectual 
face,  were  no  less  apt  a  type  of  the  spiritual  element. 

"Throw  open  the  door  of  the  boudoir,  Aminadab," 
said  Aylmer,  "and  burn  a  pastil." 

"Yes,  master,"  answered  Aminadab,  looking  in- 
tently at  the  lifeless  form  of  Georgiana;  and  then  he 
muttered  to  himself,  "If  she  were  my  wife,  I'd  never 
part  with  that  birthmark." 

When  Georgiana  recovered  consciousness  she  found 
herself  breathing  an  atmosphere  of  penetrating  fra- 
grance, the  gentle  potency  of  which  had  recalled  her 
from  her  deathlike  faintness.  The  scene  around  her 
looked  like  enchantment.  Aylmer  had  converted  those 
smoky,  dingy,  somber  rooms,  where  he  had  spent  his 
brightest  years  in  recondite  pursuits,  into  a  series  of 


THE  BIRTHMARK  377 

beautiful  apartments  not  unfit  to  he  the  secluded  ahode 
of  a  lovely  woman.  The  walls  were  hung  with  gor- 
geous curtains,  which  imparted  the  combination  of 
grandeur  and  grace  that  no  other  species  of  adorn- 
ment can  achieve;  and  as  they  fell  from  the  ceiling  to 
the  floor,  their  rich  and  ponderous  folds,  concealing  all 
angles  and  straight  lines,  appeared  to  shut  in  the  scene 
from  infinite  space.  For  aught  Georgiana  knew,  it 
might  be  a  pavilion  among  the  clouds.  And  Aylmer, 
excluding  the  sunshine,  which  would  have  interfered 
with  his  chemical  processes,  had  supplied  its  place  with 
perfumed  lamps,  emitting  flames  of  various  hue,  but 
all  uniting  in  a  soft,  impurpled  radiance.  He  now  knelt 
by  his  wife's  side,  watching  her  earnestly,  but  without 
alarm;  for  he  was  confident  in  his  science,  and  felt  that 
he  could  draw  a  magic  circle  round  her  within  which 
no  evil  might  intrude. 

"Where  am  I?  Ah,  I  remember,"  said  Georgiana, 
faintly;  and  she  placed  her  hand  over  her  cheek  to 
hide  the  terrible  mark  from  her  husband's  eyes. 

"Fear  not,  dearest!"  exclaimed  he.  "Do  not  shrink 
from  me!  Believe  me,  Georgiana,  I  even  rejoice  in  this 
single  imperfection,  since  it  will  be  such  a  rapture  to 
remove  it." 

"Oh,  spare  me!"  sadly  replied  his  wife,  "Pray  do 
not  look  at  it  again.  I  never  can  forget  that  convulsive 
shudder," 

In  order  to  soothe  Georgiana,  and,  as  it  were,  to  re- 
lease her  mind  from  the  burden  of  actual  things,  Ayl- 
mer now  put  in  practice  some  of  the  light  and  playful 
secrets  which  science  had  taught  him  among  its  pro- 
founder  lore.  Airy  figures,  absolutely  bodiless  ideas, 
and  forms  of  unsubstantial  beauty  came  and  danced 
before  her,  imprinting  their  momentary  footstei)s  ou 


378  '  GENERAL 

beams  of  light.  Though  she  had  some  indistinct  idea 
of  the  method  of  these  optical  phenomena,  still  the  illu- 
sion was  almost  perfect  enough  to  warrant  the  belief 
that  her  husband  possessed  sway  over  the  spiritual 
world.  Then  again,  when  she  felt  a  wish  to  look  forth 
from  her  seclusion,  immediately,  as  if  her  thoughts 
were  answered,  the  procession  of  external  existence 
flitted  across  a  screen.  The  scenery  and  the  figures 
of  actual  life  were  perfectly  represented,  but  with  that 
bewitching,  yet  indescribable  difference  which  always 
makes  a  picture,  an  image,  or  a  shadow  so  much  more 
attractive  than  the  original.  When  wearied  of  this, 
Aylmer  bade  her  cast  her  eyes  upon  a  vessel  contain- 
ing a  quantity  of  earth.  She  did  so,  with  little  interest 
at  first;  but  was  soon  startled  to  perceive  the  germ  of 
a  plant  shooting  upward  from  the  soil.  Then  came  the 
slender  stalk;  the  leaves  gradually  unfolded  themselves; 
and  amid  them  was  a  perfect  and  lovely  flower. 

"It  is  magical!"  cried  Georgiana.  "I  dare  not  touch 
it." 

"Nay,  pluck  it,"  answered  Aylmer,  —  "pluck  it,  and 

inhale  its  brief  perfume  while  you  may.    The  flower 

will  wither  in  a  few  moments  and  leave  nothing  save 

^  its  brown  seed  vessels;  but  thence  may  be  perpetuated 

'  ^  a  race  as  ephemeral  as  itself." 

But  Georgiana  had  no  sooner  touched  the  flower 
than  the  whole  plant  suffered  a  blight,  its  leaves  turn- 
ing coal-black  as  if  by  the  agency  of  fire. 

"There  was  too  powerful  a  stimulus,"  said  Aylmer, 
thoughtfully. 

To  make  up  for  this  abortive  experiment,  he  pro- 
posed to  take  her  portrait  by  a  scientific  process  of  his 
own  invention.  It  was  to  be  effected  })y  rays  of  light 
striking  upon  a  polished  plate  of  metal.    Georgiana 


THE  BIRTHMARK  379 

assented;  but,  on  looking  at  the  result,  was  affrighted 
to  find  the  features  of  the  portrait  blurred  and  inde- 
finable; while  the  minute  figure  of  a  hand  appeared 
where  the  cheek  should  have  been.  Aylmer  snatched 
the  metallic  plate  and  threw  it  into  a  jar  of  corrosive 
acid. 

Soon,  however,  he  forgot  these  mortifying  failures. 
In  the  intervals  of  study  and  chemical  experiment  he 
came  to  her  flushed  and  exhausted,  but  seemed  invigor- 
ated by  her  presence,  and  spoke  in  glowing  language 
of  the  resources  of  his  art.  He  gave  a  history  of  the 
long  dynasty  of  the  alchemists,  who  spent  so  many 
ages  in  quest  of  the  universal  solvent  by  which  the 
golden  principle  might  be  elicited  from  all  things  vile 
and  base.  Aylmer  appeared  to  believe  that,  by  the 
plainest  scientific  logic,  it  was  altogether  within  the 
limits  of  possibility  to  discover  this  long-sought  me- 
dium; "but,"  he  added,  "a  philosopher  who  should 
go  deep  enough  to  acquire  the  power  would  attain  too 
lofty  a  wisdom  to  stoop  to  the  exercise  of  it."  Not 
less  singular  were  his  opinions  in  regard  to  the  elixir 
vitffi.  He  more  than  intimated  that  it  was  at  his  op- 
tion to  concoct  a  liquid  that  should  prolong  life  for 
years,  perhaps  interminably;  but  that  it  would  pro- 
duce a  discord  in  Nature  which  all  the  world,  and 
chiefly  the  quaffer  of  the  immortal  nostrum,  would 
find  cause  to  curse. 

"Aylmer,  are  you  in  earnest?"  asked  Georgiana, 
looking  at  him  with  amazement  and  fear.  "It  is  ter- 
rible to  possess  such  power,  or  even  to  dream  of  pos- 
sessing it." 

"Oh,  do  not  tremble,  my  love,"  said  her  husband. 
"I  would  not  wrong  either  j'ou  or  myself  bj'  working 
such  inharmonious  efl'ects  upon  our  lives;  but  I  would 


380  GENERAL 

have  you  consider  how  trifling,  in  comparison,  is  the 
skill  requisite  to  remove  this  Httle  hand." 

At  the  mention  of  the  birthmark,  Georgiana,  as 
usual,  shrank  as  if  a  red-hot  iron  had  touched  her  cheek. 

Again  Aylmer  applied  himself  to  his  labors.  She 
could  hear  his  voice  in  the  distant  furnace-room  giv- 
ing directions  to  Aminadab,  whose  harsh,  uncouth, 
misshapen  tones  were  audible  in  response,  more  like 
the  grunt  or  growl  of  a  brute  than  human  speech.  Af- 
ter hours  of  absence,  Aylmer  reappeared  and  proposed 
that  she  should  now  examine  his  cabinet  of  chemical 
products  and  natural  treasures  of  the  earth.  Among 
the  former  he  showed  her  a  small  vial,  in  which,  he 
remarked,  was  contained  a  gentle  yet  most  powerful 
fragrance,  capable  of  impregnating  all  the  breezes  that 
blow  across  a  kingdom.  They  were  of  inestimable 
value,  the  contents  of  that  little  vial;  and,  as  he  said 
so,  he  threw  some  of  the  perfume  into  the  air  and  filled 
the  room  with  piercing  and  invigorating  delight. 

"And  what  is  this.''"  asked  Georgiana,  pointing  to 
a  small  crystal  globe  containing  a  gold-colored  liquid. 
"It  is  so  beautiful  to  the  eye  that  I  could  imagine  it 
the  elixir  of  life." 

"In  one  sense  it  is,"  replied  Aylmer;  "or,  rather, 
the  elixir  of  immortality.  It  is  the  most  precious  poi- 
son that  ever  was  concocted  in  this  world.  By  its  aid 
I  could  apportion  the  lifetime  of  any  mortal  at  whom 
you  might  point  your  finger.  The  strength  of  the  dose 
would  determine  whether  he  were  to  linger  out  years, 
or  drop  dead  in  the  midst  of  a  breath.  No  king  on  his 
guarded  throne  could  keep  his  life  if  I,  in  my  private 
station,  should  deem  that  the  welfare  of  millions  justi- 
fied me  in  depriving  him  of  it." 

"Why  do  you  keep  such  a  terrific  drug?"  inquired 
Georgiana  in  horror. 


THE  BIRTHALVRK  381 

"Do  not  mistrust  me,  dearest,"  said  her  husband, 
smiling;  "its  virtuous  potency  is  yet  greater  than  its 
harmful  one.  But  sec!  here  is  a  powerful  cosmetic. 
With  a  few  drops  of  this  in  a  vase  of  water,  freckles 
may  be  washed  away  as  easily  as  the  hands  are  cleansed. 
A  stronger  infusion  would  take  the  blood  out  of  the 
cheek,  and  leave  the  rosiest  beauty  a  pale  ghost." 

"Is  it  with  this  lotion  that  you  intend  to  bathe  my 
cheek?"  asked  Georgiana,  anxiously. 

"Oh,  no,"  hastily  replied  her  husband;  "this  is 
merely  superficial.  Your  case  demands  a  remedy  that 
shall  go  deeper." 

In  his  interviews  with  Georgiana,  Aylmer  generally 
made  minute  inquiries  as  to  her  sensations  and  whether 
the  confinement  of  the  rooms  and  the  temperature  of 
the  atmosphere  agreed  with  her.  These  questions  had 
such  a  particular  drift  that  Georgiana  began  to  conjec- 
ture that  she  was  already  subjected  to  certain  physical 
influences,  either  breathed  in  with  the  fragrant  air  or 
taken  with  her  food.  She  fancied  likewise,  but  it  might 
be  altogether  fancy,  that  there  was  a  stirring  up  of  her 
system  —  a  strange,  indefinite  sensation  creeping 
through  her  veins,  and  tingling,  half  painfully,  half 
pleasurably,  at  her  heart.  Still,  whenever  she  dared  to 
look  into  the  mirror,  there  she  beheld  herself  pale  as  a 
white  rose  and  with  the  crimson  birthmark  stamped 
upon  her  cheek.  Not  even  Aylmer  now  hated  it  so  much 
as  she. 

To  dispel  the  tedium  of  the  hours  which  her  hus- 
band found  it  necessary  to  devote  to  the  processes  of 
combination  and  analysis,  Georgiana  turned  over  the 
volumes  of  his  scientific  library.  In  many  dark  old 
tomes  she  met  with  chapters  full  of  romance  and  poetry. 
They  were  the  works  of  the  philosophers  of  the  Middle 


38^2  GENERAL 

Ages,  such  as  Albertus  Magnus,  Cornelius  Agrippa, 
Paracelsus,  and  the  famous  friar  who  created  the  pro- 
phetic Brazen  Head.  All  these  antique  naturalists  stood 
in  advance  of  their  centuries,  yet  were  imbued  with 
some  of  their  credulity,  and  therefore  were  believed, 
and  perhaps  imagined  themselves  to  have  acquired 
from  the  investigation  of  Nature  a  power  above  Nature, 
and  from  physics  a  sway  over  the  spiritual  world. 
Hardly  less  curious  and  imaginative  were  the  early 
volumes  of  the  Transactions  of  the  Royal  Society,  in 
w^hich  the  members,  knowing  little  of  the  limits  of 
natural  possibility,  were  continually  recording  wonders 
or  proposing  methods  whereby  wonders  might  be 
wrought. 

But  to  Georgiana  the  most  engrossing  volume  was  a 
large  folio  from  her  husband's  own  hand,  in  which  he 
had  recorded  every  experiment  of  his  scientific  career, 
its  original  aim,  the  methods  adopted  for  its  develop- 
ment, and  its  final  success  or  failure,  with  the  circum- 
stances to  which  either  event  was  attributable.  The 
book,  in  truth,  was  both  the  history  and  emblem  of  his 
ardent,  ambitious,  imaginative,  yet  practical  and  labo- 
rious life.  He  handled  physical  details  as  if  there  were 
nothing  beyond  them;  yet  spiritualized  them  all,  and 
redeemed  himself  from  materialism  by  his  strong  and 
eager  aspiration  towards  the  infinite.  In  his  grasp  the 
veriest  clod  of  earth  assumed  a  soul.  Georgiana,  as 
she  read,  reverenced  Aylmer  and  loved  him  more  pro- 
foundly than  ever,  but  with  a  less  entire  dependence 
on  his  judgment  than  heretofore.  Much  as  he  had  ac- 
complished, she  could  not  but  observe  that  his  most 
splendid  successes  were  almost  invariably  failures,  if 
compared  with  the  ideal  at  which  he  aimed.  His  bright- 
est diamonds  were  th^jnerest  pebbles,  and  felt  to  be  so 


THE  BIRTHMARK  383 

by  himself,  in  comparison  with  the  inestimable  gems 
which  lay  hidden  beyond  his  reach.    The  volume,  rich 
with  achievements  that  had  won  renown  for  its  author, 
was  yet  as  melancholy  a  record  as  ever  mortal  hand  had    vy^y'j 
penned.    It  was  the  sad  confession  and  continual  ex-        ^ 
amplification  of  the  shortcomings  of  the  composite  man,  J^yjr 
the  spirit  burdened  with  clay  and  working  in  matter,       *^ 
and  of  the  despair  that  assails  the  higher  nature  at 
finding  itself  so  miserably  thwarted  by  the  earthly  part. 
Perhaps  every  man  of  genius  in  whatever  sphere  might 
recognize  the  image  of  his  own  experience  in  Aylmer's 
journal. 

So  deeply  did  these  reflections  afi'ect  Georgiana  that 
she  laid  her  face  upon  the  open  volume  and  burst  into 
tears.   In  this  situation  she  was  found  by  her  husband. 

"It  is  dangerous  to  read  in  a  sorcerer's  books," 
said  he  with  a  smile,  though  his  countenance  was  un- 
easy and  displeased.  "Georgiana,  there  are  pages  in 
that  volume  which  I  can  scarcely  glance  over  and  keep 
my  senses.  Take  heed  lest  it  prove  as  detrimental  to 
you." 

"It  has  made  me  worship  you  more  than  ever,"  said 
she. 

"Ah,  wait  for  this  one  success,"  rejoined  he,  "then 
worship  me  if  you  will.  I  shall  deem  myself  hardly 
unworthy  of  it.  But  come,  I  have  sought  you  for  the 
luxury  of  your  voice.   Sing  to  me,  dearest." 

So  she  poured  out  the  liquid  music  of  her  voice  to 
quench  the  thirst  of  his  spirit.  He  then  took  his  leave 
with  a  boyish  exuberance  of  gayety,  assuring  her  that 
her  seclusion  should  endure  but  a  little  longer,  and  that 
the  result  was  already  certain.  Scarcely  had  he  de- 
parted when  Georgiana  felt  irresistibly  im])elled  to  fol- 
low him.    She  had  forgotten  to  inform  Aylmer  of  a 


384  GENERAL 

symptom  which  for  two  or  three  hours  past  had  begun 
to  excite  her  attention.  It  was  a  sensation  in  the  fatal 
birthmark,  not  painful,  but  which  induced  a  restless- 
ness throughout  her  system.  Hastening  after  her  hus- 
band, she  intruded  for  the  first  time  into  the  laboratory. 

The  first  thing  that  struck  her  eye  was  the  furnace, 
that  hot  and  feverish  worker,  with  the  intense  glow  of 
its  fire,  which  by  the  quantities  of  soot  clustered  above 
it  seemed  to  have  been  burning  for  ages.  There  was 
a  distilling  apparatus  in  full  operation.  Around  the 
ratuoi  were  retorts,  tubes,  cylinders,  crucibles,  and  other 
apparatus  of  chemical  research.  An  electrical  machine 
stood  ready  for  immediate  use.  The  atmosphere  felt 
oppressively  close,  and  was  tainted  with  gaseous  odors 
which  had  been  tormented  forth  by  the  processes  of 
science.  The  severe  and  homely  simplicity  of  the  apart- 
ment, with  its  naked  walls  and  brick  pavement,  looked 
strange,  accustomed  as  Georgiana  had  become  to  the 
fantastic  elegance  of  her  boudoir.  But  what  chiefly, 
indeed  almost  solely,  drew  her  attention,  was  the  aspect 
of  Aylmer  himself. 

He  was  pale  as  death,  anxious  and  absorbed,  and 
hung  over  the  furnace  as  if  it  depended  upon  his  ut- 
most watchfulness  whether  the  liquid  which  it  was  dis- 
tilling should  be  the  draught  of  immortal  happiness  or 
misery.  How  different  from  the  sanguine  and  joyous 
mien  that  he  had  assumed  for  Georgiana's  encourage- 
ment! 

"Carefully  now,  Aminadab;  carefully,  thou  human 
machine;  carefully,  thou  man  of  clay!"  muttered 
Aylmer,  more  to  himself  than  his  assistant.  "Now,  if 
there  be  a  thought  too  much  or  too  little,  it  is  all  over." 

"Ho!  ho!"  mumbled  Aminadab.  "Look,  master! 
look!" 


THE   BIRTHMARK  385 

Aylmer  raised  his  eyes  hastily,  and  at  first  red- 
dened, then  grew  paler  than  ever,  on  beholding  Geor- 
giana.  He  rushed  towards  her  and  seized  her  arm 
with  a  grip  that  left  the  print  of  his  fingers  uj)on  it. 

"Why  do  you  come  hither?  Have  you  no  trust  in 
your  husband?"  cried  he,  impetuously.  "Would  you 
throw  the  blight  of  that  fatal  birthmark  over  my  la- 
bors?  It  is  not  well  done.   Go,  prying  woman,  go!" 

"Nay,  Aylmer,"  said  Georgiana  with  the  firmness 
of  which  she  possessed  no  stinted  endowment,  "it  is 
not  you  that  have  a  right  to  complain.  You  mistunst 
your  wife;  you  have  concealed  the  anxiety  with  which 
you  watch  the  development  of  this  experiment.  Think 
not  so  unworthily  of  me,  my  husband.  Tell  me  all 
the  risk  we  run,  and  fear  not  that  I  shall  shrink;  for 
my  share  in  it  is  far  less  than  your  own." 

"No,  no,  Georgiana!"  said  Aylmer,  impatiently; 
"it  must  not  be." 

"I  submit,"  replied  she  calmly.  "And,  Aylmer,  I 
shall  quaff  whatever  draught  you  bring  me;  but  it  will 
be  on  the  same  principle  that  would  induce  me  to  take 
a  dose  of  poison  if  offered  by  your  hand." 

"My  noble  wife,"  said  Aylmer,  deeply  moved,  "I 
knew  not  the  height  and  depth  of  your  nature  until 
now.  Nothing  shall  be  concealed.  Know,  then,  that 
this  crimson  hand,  superficial  as  it  seems,  has  clutched 
its  grasp  into  your  being  with  a  strength  of  which  I 
had  no  previous  conception.  I  have  already  adminis- 
tered agents  powerful  enough  to  do  aught  except  to 
change  your  entire  physical  system.  Only  one  thing 
remains  to  be  tried.   If  that  fail  us  we  are  ruined." 

"Why  did  you  hesitate  to  tell  me  this?"  asked  she. 

"Because,  Georgiana,"  said  Aylmer,  in  a  low  voice, 
"there  is  danger." 


386  GENERAL 

"Danger?  There  is  but  one  danger  —  that  this 
horrible  stigma  shall  be  left  upon  my  cheek!"  cried 
Georgiana.  "Remove  it,  remove  it,  whatever  be  the 
cost,  or  we  shall  both  go  mad!" 

"Heaven  knows  your  words  are  too  true,"  said  Ayl- 
mer,  sadly.  "And  now,  dearest,  return  to  your  bou- 
doir.  In  a  little  while  all  will  be  tested." 

He  conducted  her  back  and  took  leave  of  her  with 
a  solemn  tenderness  which  spoke  far  more  than  his 
words  how  much  was  now  at  stake.  After  his  de- 
parture Georgiana  became  rapt  in  musings.  She  con- 
sidered the  character  of  Aylmer,  and  did  it  completer 
justice  than  at  any  previous  moment.  Her  heart  ex- 
ulted, while  it  trembled,  at  his  honorable  love  —  so 
pure  and  lofty  that  it  would  accept  nothing  less  than 
perfection  nor  miserably  make  itself  contented  with  an 
earthlier  nature  than  he  had  dreamed  of.  She  felt 
how  much  more  precious  was  such  a  sentiment  than 
that  meaner  kind  which  would  have  borne  with  the 
imperfection  for  her  sake,  and  have  been  guilty  of 
treason  to  holy  love  by  degrading  its  perfect  idea  to 
the  level  of  the  actual;  and  with  her  whole  spirit  she 
prayed  that,  for  a  single  moment,  she  might  satisfy  his 
highest  and  deepest  conception.  Longer  than  one  mo- 
ment she  well  knew  it  could  not  be;  for  his  spirit  was 
ever  on  the  march,  ever  ascending,  and  each  instant 
required  something  that  was  beyond  the  scope  of  the 
instant  before. 

The  sound  of  her  husband's  footsteps  aroused  her. 
He  bore  a  crystal  goblet  containing  a  liquor  colorless 
as  water,  but  bright  enough  to  be  the  draught  of  im- 
mortality. Aylmer  was  pale;  but  it  seemed  rather 
the  consequence  of  a  highly  wrought  state  of  mind  and 
tension  of  spirit  than  of  fear  or  doubt. 


THE  BIRTHMARK  387 

"The  concoction  of  the  draught  has  been  perfect," 
said  he,  in  answer  to  Georgiana's  look.  "Unless  all 
my  science  have  deceived  me,  it  cannot  fail." 

"Save  on  your  account,  my  dearest  Aylmer,"  ob- 
served his  wife,  "I  might  wish  to  put  off  this  birth- 
mark of  mortality  by  relinquishing  mortality  itself  in 
preference  to  any  other  mode.  Life  is  but  a  sad  pos- 
session to  those  who  have  attained  precisely  the  degree 
of  moral  advancement  at  which  I  stand.  Were  I  weaker 
and  blinder  it  might  be  happiness.  Were  I  stronger, 
it  might  be  endured  hopefully.  But,  being  what  I  find 
myself,  methinks  I  am  ^of  all  mortals  the  most  fit  to 
die."        >    ^-^-^  ^  ^^^  ^^ 

"You  are  fit  for  heaven  without  tasting  death!"  re- 
plied her  husband.  "But  why  do  we  speak  of  dying? 
The  draught  cannot  fail.  Behold  its  effect  upon  this 
plant." 

On  the  window  seat  there  stood  a  geranium  diseased 
with  yellow  blotches,  which  had  overspread  all  its 
leaves.  Aylmer  poured  a  small  quantity  of  the  liquid 
upon  the  soil  in  which  it  grew.  In  a  little  time,  when 
the  roots  of  the  plant  had  taken  up  the  moisture,  the 
unsightly  blotches  began  to  be  extinguished  in  a  living 
verdure. 

"There  needed  no  proof,"  said  Georgiana,  quietly. 
"Give  me  the  goblet.  I  joyfully  stake  all  upon  your 
word." 

"Drink,  then,  thou  lofty  creature!"  exclaimed  Ayl- 
mer, with  fervid  admiration.  "There  is  no  taint  of 
imperfection  on  thy  spirit.  Thy  sensible  frame,  too, 
shall  soon  be  all  perfect." 

She  quaffed  the  liquid  and  returned  the  goblet  to 
his  hand. 

"It  is  grateful,"  said  she  with  a  placid  smile.    "Me- 


388  GENERAL 

thinks  it  is  like  water  from  a  heavenly  fountain;  for  it 
contains  I  know  not  what  of  unobtrusive  fragrance 
and  deliciousness.  It  allays  a  feverish  thirst  that  had 
parched  me  for  many  days.  Now,  dearest,  let  me 
sleep.  My  earthly  senses  are  closing  over  my  spirit 
like  the  leaves  around  the  heart  of  a  rose  at  sunset." 

She  spoke  the  last  words  with  a  gentle  reluctance, 
as  if  it  required  almost  more  energy  than  she  could 
command  to  pronounce  the  faint  and  lingering  sylla- 
bles. Scarcely  had  they  loitered  through  her  lips  ere 
she  was  lost  in  slumber.  Aylmer  sat  by  her  side,  watch- 
ing her  aspect  with  the  emotions  proper  to  a  man  the 
whole  value  of  whose  existence  was  involved  in  the 
process  now  to  be  tested.  Mingled  with  this  mood, 
however,  was  the  philosophic  investigation  characteris- 
tic of  the  man  of  science.  Not  the  minutest  symptom 
escaped  him.  A  heightened  flush  of  the  cheek,  a  slight 
irregularity  of  breath,  a  quiver  of  the  eyelid,  a  hardly 
perceptible  tremor  through  the  frame,  —  such  were 
the  details  which,  as  the  moments  passed,  he  wrote 
down  in  his  folio  volume.  Intense  thought  had  set  its 
stamp  upon  every  previous  page  of  that  volume,  but 
the  thoughts  of  years  were  all  concentrated  upon  the 
last. 

While  thus  employed,  he  failed  not  to  gaze  often  at 
the  fatal  hand,  and  not  without  a  shudder.  Yet  once, 
by  a  strange  and  unaccountable  impulse,  he  pressed  it 
with  his  lips.  His  spirit  recoiled,  however,  in  the  very 
act;  and  Georgiana,  out  of  the  midst  of  her  deep  sleep, 
moved  uneasily  and  murmured  as  if  in  remonstrance. 
Again  Aylmer  resumed  his  watch.  Nor  was  it  without 
avail.  The  crimson  hand,  which  at  first  had  been 
strongly  visible  upon  the  marble  paleness  of  Georgi- 
ana's   cheek,   now  grew   more    faintly   outlined.    She 


THE  BIRTH^LVRK  889 

remained  not  less  pale  than  ever;  but  the  birthmark, 
with  every  breath  that  came  and  went,  lost  somewhat 
of  its  former  distinctness.  Its  presence  had  been  awful; 
its  departure  was  more  awful  still.  Watch  the  stain 
of  the  rainbow  fading  out  of  the  sky,  and  you  will  know 
how  that  mysterious  symbol  passed  away. 

"By  Heaven!  it  is  well-nigh  gone!"  said  Aylmer 
to  himself,  in  almost  irrepressible  ecstasy.  "I  can 
scarcely  trace  it  now.  Success!  success!  And  now  it 
is  like  the  faintest  rose  color.  The  lightest  flush  of  blood 
across  her  cheek  would  overcome  it.  But  she  is  so  pale ! " 

He  drew  aside  the  window  curtain  and  suffered  the 
light  of  natural  day  to  fall  into  the  room  and  rest  upon 
her  cheek.  At  the  same  time  he  heard  a  gross,  hoarse 
chuckle,  which  he  had  long  known  as  his  servant 
Aminadab's  expression  of  delight. 

"Ah,  clod!  ah,  earthly  mass!"  cried  Aylmer,  laugh- 
ing in  a  sort  of  frenzy,  "you  have  served  me  well! 
Matter  and  spirit  —  earth  and  heaven  —  have  both 
done  their  part  in  this!  Laugh,  thing  of  the  senses! 
Your  have  earned  the  right  to  laugh." 

These  exclamations  broke  Georgiana's  sleep.  She 
slowly  unclosed  her  eyes  and  gazed  into  the  mirror 
which  her  husband  had  arranged  for  that  purpose.  A 
faint  smile  flitted  over  her  lips  when  she  recognized 
how  barely  perceptible  was  now  that  crimson  hand 
which  had  once  blazed  forth  with  such  disastrous 
brilliancy  as  to  scare  away  all  their  happiness.  But 
then  her  eyes  sought  Aylmer's  face  with  a  trouble  and 
anxiety  that  he  could  by  no  means  account  for. 

"My  poor  Aylmer!"  murmured  she. 

"Poor?  Nay,  richest,  happiest,  most  favored!" 
exclaimed  he.  "My  peerless  bride,  it  is  successful! 
You  are  perfect!" 


390  GENERAL 

"My  poor  Aylmer,"  she  repeated,  with  a  more  than 
human  tenderness,  "you  have  aimed  loftily;  you  have 
done  nobly.  Do  not  repent  that  with  so  high  and  pure 
a  feeling,  you  have  rejected  the  best  the  earth  could 
offer.   Aylmer,  dearest  Aylmer,  I  am  dying!" 

Alas!  it  was  too  true!  The  fatal  hand  had  grappled 
with  the  mystery  of  life,  and  was  the  bond  by  which  an 
angelic  spirit  kept  itself  in  union  with  a  mortal  frame. 
A.S  the  last  crimson  tint  of  the  birthmark  —  that  sole 
token  of  human  imperfection  —  faded  from  her  cheek, 
the  parting  breath  of  the  now  perfect  woman  passed 
into  the  atmosphere,  and  her  soul,  lingering  a  moment 
near  her  husband,  took  its  heavenward  flight.  Then  a 
hoarse,  chuckling  laugh  was  heard  again!  Thus  ever 
does  the  gross  fatality  of  earth  exult  in  its  invariable 
triumph  over  the  immortal  essence  which,  in  this  dim 
sphere  of  half  development,  demands  the  completeness 
of  a  higher  state.  -Yet,  had  Aylmer  reached  a  profounder 
wisdom,  he  need  not  thus  have  flung  away  the  hap- 
piness which  would  have  woven  his  mortal  life  of  the 
self-same  texture  with  the  celestial.  The  momentary 
circumstance  was  too  strong  for  him;  he  failed  to  look 
beyond  the  shadowy  scope  of  time,  and,  living  once  for 
all  in  eternity,  to  find  the  perfect  future  in  the  present. 


./< 


u^ 


ON  THE   STAIRS  1 

BY  ARTHUR   MORRISON 

Aside  from  the  unity  of  tone  that  characterizes  this 
story  in  the  noteworthy  harmony  between  the  shabby  back- 
ground of  a  "near-slum"  and  the  unpleasant  personality  of 
the  principal  actors,  the  narrative  possesses  special  interest 
as  a  study  in  plot  structure.  The  peculiarity  of  the  plot  lies 
in  the  fact  that  the  real  motive  of  the  action  is  kept  out  of 
sight,  and  is  evidenced  only  through  the  externals  that  are 
attendant  thereon.  The  story  is  essentially  psycliologic,  and 
the  true  interest  lies  in  penetrating  the  outward  actions  and 
reaching  through  them  to  the  motives  that  lie  beyond.  Few 
details  can  be  neglected:  the  five  shillings  contributed  by  Dr. 
Mansell,  and  the  equal  amount  secured  from  his  inexperienced 
understudy;  the  failure  of  Mrs.  Curtis  to  obtain  the  wine  that 
oflFered  "the  only  way"  to  the  possible  recovery  of  the  sick 
man;  the  whole  problem  of  mutes  and  "plooms";  —  these 
and  a  dozen  other  little  touches  outline  the  details  of  the  sub- 
narrative  and  constitute  a  really  subtile  study  of  one  of  the 
weaknesses  of  human  nature.  In  this  respect,  that  it  is  con- 
sistently drawn  to  a  single  unified  pattern,  that  all  the  details 
of  setting,  of  character,  and  of  plot  center  about  one  common 
nucleus  idea,  On  the  Stairs  —  like  The  Birthmark  —  presents 
a  noteworthy  example  of  the  short-story  in  its  typical  form. 

The  house  had  been  "genteel."  AVhen  trade  was 
prospering  in  the  East  End,  and  the  ship-fitter  or 
block-maker  thought  it  no  shame  to  live  in  the  parish 
where  his  workshop  lay,  such  a  master  had  lived  hcre.^ 
Now,  it  was  a  tall,  solid,  well-bricked,  ugly  house, 
grimy  and  paintless  in  the  joinery,  cracked  and  patched 
in  the  windows:  where  the  front  door  stood  ojien  all 
day  long;  and  the  womankind  sat  on  the  steps,  talking 

•  From  Tales  of  Mean  Streets.  Printed  by  permission  of  Little, 
Brown  &  Co. 


392  GENERAL 

of  sickness  and  death  and  the  cost  of  things;  and  treach- 
erous holes  lurked  in  the  carpet  of  road-soil  on  the 
stairs  and  in  the  passage.  For  when  eight  families  live 
in  a  house,  nobody  buys  a  doormat,  and  the  street  was 
one  of  those  streets  that  are  always  muddy.  It  smelt, 
too,  of  many  things,  none  of  them  pleasant  (one  was 
fried  fish) ;  but  for  all  that  it  was  not  a  slum. 

Three  flights  up,  a  gaunt  woman  with  bare  forearms 
stayed  on  her  way  to  listen  at  a  door  which,  opening, 
let  out  a  warm,  fetid  waft  from  a  close  sick-room.  A 
bent  and  tottering  old  woman  stood  on  the  threshold, 
holding  the  door  behind  her. 

"An'  is  'e  no  better  now,  Mrs,  Curtis?"  the  gaunt 
woman  asked,  with  a  nod  at  the  opening. 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head,  and  pulled  the  door 
closer.  Her  jaw  waggled  loosely  in  her  withered  chaps: 
"Nor  won't  be;  till  'e's  gone."  Then  after  a  certain 
pause,  "'E's  goin',"  she  said. 

"Don't  doctor  give  no  'ope?" 

"Lor'  bless  ye,  I  don't  want  to  ast  no  doctors,'* 
Mrs.  Curtis  replied,  with  something  not  unlike  a  chuckle. 
"I've  seed  too  many  on  'em.  The  boy's  a-goin'  fast;  I 
can  see  that.  An'  then  "  —  she  gave  the  handle  another 
tug,  and  whispered  —  "he's  been  called."  She  nodded 
again.  "Three  seprit  knocks  at  the  bed-head  las' 
night;  an'  I  know  what  that  means!" 

The  gaunt  woman  raised  her  brows,  and  nodded. 
"Ah,  well,"  she  said,  "we  all  on  us  comes  to  it  some  day, 
sooner  or  later.  An'  it's  often  a  'appy  release." 

The  two  looked  into  space  beyond  each  other,  the 
elder  with  a  nod  and  a  croak.  Presently  the  other  pur- 
sued, "'E's  been  a  very  good  son,  ain't  'e?" 

"Ay,  ay,  well  enough  son  to  me,"  responded  the  old 
woman,  a  little  peevishly;  "an'  I'll  'ave  'im  put  away 


ON  THE  STAIRS  393 

decent,  though  there's  on'y  the  Union  for  me  after. 
I  can  do  that,  thank  Gawd!"  she  added,  meditatively, 
as  chin  on  fist  she  stared  into  the  thickening  dark  over 
the  stairs. 

"When  I  lost  my  pore  'usband,"  said  the  gaunt 
woman,  with  a  certain  brightening,  "I  give  'im  a 
'ansome  funeral.  'E  was  a  Oddfeller,  an'  I  got  twelve 
pound.  I  'ad  a  oak  caufin  an'  a  open  'earse.  There  was 
a  kerridge  for  the  fam'ly  an'  one  for  'is  mates  —  two 
'orses  each,  an'  feathers,  an'  mutes;  an'  it  went  the 
furthest  way  round  to  the  cimitry.  'Wotever  'appens, 
Mrs,  Manders, '  says  the  undertaker,  'you'll  feel  as 
you've  treated  'im  proper;  nobody  can't  reproach  you 
over  that.'  An'  they  could  n't.  'E  was  a  good  'usband 
to  me,  an'  I  buried  'im  respectable." 

The  gaunt  woman  exulted.  The  old,  old  story  of 
Manders's  funeral  fell  upon  the  other  one's  ears  with 
a  freshened  interest,  and  she  mumbled  her  gums  rumi- 
nantly.  "Bob '11  'ave  a  'ansome  buryin',  too,"  she 
said.  "I  can  make  it  up,  with  the  insurance  money, 
an'  this,  an'  that.  On'y  I  dunno  about  mutes.  It's  a 
expense." 

In  the  East  End,  when  a  woman  has  not  enough 
money  to  buy  a  thing  much  desired,  she  does  not  say 
so  in  plain  words;  she  says  the  thing  is  an  "expense," 
or  a  "great  expense. "  It  means  the  same  thing,  but  it 
sounds  better.  Mrs.  Curtis  had  reckoned  her  resources, 
and  found  that  mutes  would  be  an  "expense."  At  a 
cheap  funeral  mutes  cost  half-a-sovereign  and  their 
liquor.   Mrs.  Manders  said  as  much. 

"  Yus,  yus,  'arf-a-sovereign,"  the  old  woman  as- 
sented. Within,  the  sick  man  feebly  beat  the  floor  with 
a  stick.  "  I  'ra  a-comin',"  she  cried  shrilly;  "  yus,  'arf-a- 
sovereign,  but  it 's  a  lot,  an'  I  don't  see  'ow  I  'm  to  do 


394  GENERAL 

it  —  not  at  present."  She  reached  for  the  door-handle 
again,  but  stopped  and  added,  by  afterthought,  "Un- 
less I  don't  'ave  no  plooms." 

"It  'ud  be   a  pity  not  to  'ave  plooms.    I  'ad —  " 

There  were  footsteps  on  the  stairs:  then  a  stumble 
and  a  testy  word.  Mrs.  Curtis  peered  over  into  the 
gathering  dark.  "Is  it  the  doctor,  sir?"  she  asked.  It 
was  the  doctor's  assistant;  and  Mrs.  Manders  tramped 
up  to  the  next  landing  as  the  door  of  the  sick-room  took 
him  in. 

For  five  minutes  the  stairs  were  darker  than  ever. 
Then  the  assistant,  a  very  young  man,  came  out  again, 
followed  by  the  old  woman  with  a  candle.  Mrs.  Manders 
listened  in  the  upper  dark.  "He's  sinking  fast,"  said 
the  assistant.  " He  mws/ have  a  stimulant.  Dr.  Mansell 
ordered  port  wine.  Where  is  it?"  Mrs.  Curtis  mumbled 
dolorously.  "I  tell  you  he  must  have  it,"  he  averred 
with  unprofessional  emphasis  (his  qualification  was 
only  a  month  old).  "The  man  can't  take  solid  food  and 
his  strength  must  be  kept  up  somehow.  Another  day 
may  make  all  the  difference.  Is  it  because  you  can't 
afford  it?" 

"It's  a  expense  —  sich  a  expense,  doctor,"  the  old 
woman  pleaded.  "An'  wot  with  'arf -pints  o'  milk 
an'  —  "   She  grew  inarticulate,  and  mumbled  dismally. 

"But  he  must  have  it,  Mrs.  Curtis,  if  it's  your  last 
shilling:  it's  the  only  way.  If  you  mean  you  absolutely 
haven't  the  money — "  and  he  paused  a  little  awk- 
wardly. He  was  not  a  wealthy  young  man,  —  wealthy 
young  men  do  not  devil  for  East  End  doctors,  —  but 
he  was  conscious  of  a  certain  haul  of  sixpences  at  nap 
the  night  before;  and,  being  inexperienced,  he  did  not 
foresee  the  career  of  persecution  whereon  he  was  enter- 
ing at  his  owTi  expense  and  of  his  own  motion.  He  pro- 


ON  THE  STAIRS  395 

duced  five  shillings:  "If  you  absolutely  haven't  the 
money,  why  —  take  this,  and  get  a  bottle  —  good : 
not  at  a  public  house.  But  mind,  at  once.  He  should 
have  had  it  before." 

It  would  have  interested  him,  as  a  matter  of  coin- 
cidence, to  know  that  his  principal  had  been  guilty 
of  the  selfsame  indiscretion  —  even  the  amount  was 
identical  —  on  that  landing  the  day  before.  But,  as 
Mrs.  Curtis  said  nothing  of  this,  he  flovmdered  dovm. 
the  stair  and  out  into  the  wetter  mud,  pondering 
whether  or  not  the  beloved  son  of  a  Congregational 
minister  might  take  full  credit  for  a  deed  of  charity 
on  the  proceeds  of  sixpenny  nap.  But  Mrs.  Curtis 
puffed  her  wrinkles,  and  shook  her  head  sagaciously 
as  she  carried  in  her  candle.  From  the  room  came  a 
clink  as  of  money  falling  into  a  teapot.  And  Mrs. 
Manders  went  about  her  business. 

The  door  was  shut,  and  the  stair  was  a  pit  of  black- 
ness. Twice  a  lodger  passed  dowoi,  and  up  and  do^\'n, 
and  still  it  did  not  open.  Men  and  women  walked  on 
the  lower  flights,  and  out  at  the  door,  and  in  again. 
From  the  street  a  shout  or  a  snatch  of  laughter  floated 
up  the  pit.  On  the  pavement  footsteps  rang  crisper 
and  fewer,  and  from  the  bottom  passage  there  were 
sounds  of  stagger  and  sprawl.  A  demented  old  clock 
buzzed  divers  hours  at  random,  and  was  rebuked  every 
twenty  minutes  by  the  regular  tread  of  a  policeman  on 
his  beat.  Finally,  somebody  shut  the  street-door  with 
a  great  bang,  and  the  street  was  muffled.  A  key  turned 
inside  the  door  on  the  landing,  but  that  was  all.  A 
feeble  light  shone  for  hours  along  the  crack  below,  and 
then  went  out.  The  crazy  old  clock  went  buzzing  on, 
but  nothing  left  that  room  aU  night.  Nothmg  that 
opened  the  door  ^v^ 


396  GENERAL 

WTien  next  the  key  turned,  it  was  to  Mrs.  Manders's 
knock,  in  the  full  morning;  and  soon  the  two  women 
came  out  on  the  landing  together,  Mrs.  Curtis  with 
a  shapeless  clump  of  a  bonnet.  "Ah,  'e's  a  lovely 
corpse,"  said  Mrs.  Manders.  "Like  wax.  So  was  my 
'usband." 

"I  must  be  stirrin',"  croaked  the  old  woman,  "an* 
go  about  the  insurance  an'  the  measurin'  an'  that. 
There's  lots  to  do." 

"Ah,  there  is.  'Oo  are  you  goin'  to  'ave,  —  Wilkins? 
I  'ad  Wilkins.  Better  than  Kedge,  I  think:  Kedge's 
mutes  dresses  rusty,  an'  their  trousis  is  frayed.  If  you 
was  thinkin'  of  'avin'  mutes  — " 

"Yus,  yus, "  —  with  a  palsied  nodding,  —  "I'm 
a-goin'  to  'ave  mutes:  I  can  do  it  respectable,  thank 
Gawd!" 

"And  the  plooms?" 

"Ay,  yus,  and  the  plooms  too.  They  ain't  sich  a 
great  expense,  after  all." 


>! 
> 


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